A Very Kind Friend
by GotaBingley
Summary: Distressed by her mother's death and afraid for her brother's life, Margaret Hale turns to prayer for comfort and guidance. The answer she receives will force her to swallow her pride and depend upon another. But will she be able to do so?
1. Where Is My Solace?

Occasionally he wondered what the sky really looked like on a day like this, unhindered by smoke and haze and looming buildings surrounding him. Though it was still quite early, long before any of the hands would arrive, the mild temperature hinted of later, almost-overwhelming heat. And yet, even on summer days like these, when night came late and departed early, he could not see the sun or enjoy a truly blue sky.

John Thornton shook his head, berating himself for such traitorous thoughts to his home and profession. Surely there was nothing to regret about the path he had chosen; he was proud of his work, and proud of himself for the care he took over it. A hazy sky above was a small price to pay for being able to face himself in the mirror each morning. But there was no denying those moments when he imagined a different life, one in which the sun shone brightly and clearly overhead.

He had never contemplated such things in his youth, at least not with great frequency. In the far-too-brief moments of leisure, any ruminations of an alternate existence only changed the circumstances of his father's death, not his home. Removing from Milton, even then, was unthinkable. He never allowed himself to dwell very long on such thoughts, anyway. There was little point in wondering something that was not nor would ever be.

And so he had continued into manhood, excessively aware of reality and never straying far or long into fanciful notions. These musings about an open sky had only begun in the last year, no doubt influenced by the company he kept. Or perhaps to be more accurate, the company he wished to keep. Imagining a country life came much easier when a man was desperately in love with a passionate defender of the country. He never seriously considered living away from Milton, but he was not immune to visions of a lovely forest, wandering hand-in-hand with a living, breathing wood nymph.

He shook his head again, stirring himself to concentrate on the ledger in front of him. There was another hour or so before the workers would arrive at the mill, and there was no sense indulging in idiotic fantasy during time he should be devoting to figures and contracts. Barely five minutes into seating himself at his desk and he was already letting his mind wander! This was unacceptable.

But, he pondered, it was also inevitable that she should enter his thoughts. How could he callously forget her or her father when they must be suffering? Only yesterday morning he received word that Mrs. Hale had been released from her mortal pain. He had gone in the afternoon to give assistance to Mr. Hale, but had not been able to see him. He wished he could be of service somehow to his old friend, and he was anxious to know how Margaret bore the loss. Inevitable, he repeated to himself, and natural that she should persist in his thoughts at such a time.

There was little use in lingering on her, however, and he soon bent his head to his work, the only audible sound coming from the scratch of his pen on paper. Ten minutes passed in such a manner when he heard the distant squeal of the front gate and crunching footsteps on the gravelly pavement of the courtyard.

Glancing on the clock in mild confusion, he irritably wondered who the devil would be here so early. His employees, knowing his strict standards, were punctual, but even the earliest could not be reasonably expected for another half-hour. It was foolish for anybody else to be here now, but he didn't care enough to investigate, especially as it was clear the footsteps were getting louder and closer. Apparently he would soon find out who was here. He dipped his pen and continued with his task.

Soon the door of the main office creaked open, and he lifted his head again, though the situation of his private office blocked the main entrance from his view. Whoever it was, he would not see them until they came to his own door. Irritation and curiosity were chief among his feelings, especially as the steps of the unknown person halted, then stepped, then halted again. He leaned back in his chair, curiosity taking over his annoyance, for it seemed that his visitor was suffering from indecision. This ruled out any of the clerks that worked in the main room, for they would have simply gone straight to their desks. He found himself intrigued with the sound of another step and another pause. He decided to put an end to the visitor's hesitance.

"Williams?" he called out. "Is that you?"

He was certain it was not his overseer, but it was as good a name as any. Speaking up was simply a means to discover the person's identity, and clearly his small action paid off, for the steps began again without pause and crossed the remaining distance to his office. Mr. Thornton was unaware of his jaw dropping, but down it went all the same.

For there, in the door frame, stood Margaret Hale.

* * *

She had never found it so difficult to sleep as she did that night. Why, she asked herself, when she was so exhausted with grief and turmoil, could her body not allow her rest? She spent several hours in weary frustration, trying to will herself to slumber, and still it would not come. She finally gave it up as a lost cause and sat up, lighting the candle at her bedside to review the events of the day.

Was it really only the previous night her mother had passed on? And yet it already seemed a lifetime to Margaret, who had to put aside her mourning to be a comfort to both her father and brother. She had forced herself to be cheerful, to plan and bear them up. Only through silent prayer had she been able to endure the strain with a modicum of peace.

But when the night came and she was alone in her room, the peace that had sustained her was gone. In its place was an anxious fear, brought on by Dixon's revelation of Leonards and the subsequent decision to send Fred off as quickly as possible. This it was that so disrupted her attempts to sleep,she realized once she examined her thoughts. The simmering threat on Frederick's life, always present in the back of her mind the past few days, was now a full boil, and she could not stop her imagination from conjuring up dreadful images of a faceless man setting upon their house and dragging Fred off to his death.

Her mind simply would not settle, and her attempts at reason were to no avail. Their plan to send Fred away on the next evening's train seemed sound at the time, but was it soon enough? And if she was this restless now, what a state would she be in after a whole day of waiting and suspense? Was it safe to keep Fred at the house for an entire day, or should he find a way out of Milton sooner? Was the train a wise choice? What should happen if he were discovered in London? She had supported the idea of appealing to Henry Lennox, but what if she was wrong? What if delay meant catastrophe? What would that do to her father?

Her fears and questions consumed her, and she sank into her covers, wishing she could hide. But she knew she could not escape them. She had set on a course, and it was her responsibility now, whether to stay on it or find another plan. But which way was right? Tormented by indecision, she clutched her pillow to her body.

"Please, Heavenly Father," she whispered into it. "Grant me wisdom. Let me find peace again." Her fervent plea was swallowed up into the fabric, and for a moment she doubted He could hear her. At once she felt shame for her doubt. Did He not instruct His people to pray in secret? Was that not what she was doing now? What did it matter if her words were muffled? She knew He could hear her. "Help me, dear Father."

She did not dare hope that a heavenly vision would open before her, but she listened to every creak and flutter in the deep silence of night as though the slightest noise might be some kind of sign. She felt a strange mixture of alertness and exhaustion that made her feel more than a little giddy, and she became afraid she might miss whatever answer might come.

Breathing a sigh, she let her eyes wander around her room, where they stopped at her bureau. It was an ordinary piece of furniture, and the articles kept therein were not much different from any young woman's, aside from a few personal keepsakes. A handkerchief of her mother's, letters from her father from her time in London, some old beads from Edith, gloves from . . .

She flushed that her thoughts had moved so thoroughly and quickly away from one predicament to another. The gloves were not a willing gift, but rather a forgotten casualty of an embarrassing and painful argument. Mr. Thornton had left them there that horrible days many weeks ago. And she, in an effort to conceal his visit and the purpose for it, had taken and hidden them, unable to find an appropriate way to return them. Did he miss them now? Would she ever forget his face when she rejected him or the unrelenting passion in his voice? It had not been so long since that day that she could think of him without blushing deeply.

He had come that very afternoon, she had discovered. It was, after all, very like him. He had shown tender kindness to her mother during the last while, and he did have a strong friendship with her father. Friendless as they often felt in Milton, Mr. Thornton had not wavered. Even her fastidious mother had admitted to liking him in the end. He was a kind friend, just as she had told Fred, and though she had been startled to hear his name spoken, she was not surprised to learn of his offer of assistance. If only there was a way for him to assist her now.

With a start, she sat up straighter and held her breath. _If only he could assist her now . . ._ The thought played itself again, like an incessant line of music. She swallowed to ease her suddenly dry throat.

It played again. _If only . . ._ She shook the covers around her in response. No, it was ridiculous, not to mention dangerous.

It played again, louder. _If only he . . ._

Was it dangerous? She felt herself weakening to the suggestion.

Louder. _If only he could . . ._

What was she thinking? She grasped her hands together, bringing them to her mouth as though to silence the unspoken refrain.

Like thunder now. _He could assist her . . ._

Had she lost her senses entirely? she asked herself, now burying her face in her hands. This could not be.

 _Assist her now_.

Was this her answer? Was she truly being asked to risk her brother's safety by revealing him to Mr. Thornton? Was _he_ to be her assurance from heaven? Could he be trusted?

Immediately, without needing to resort to prayer, she knew one thing: Mr. Thornton did have a great deal of integrity. She also knew he was capable of protecting others; she herself benefited from that protection. Her name had not been scattered around town as gossip fodder after the riot, after all, and that must be attributed to his efforts. And he had done nothing to arouse suspicion in her own family after that terrible conversation. He was honest. And trustworthy. And he must be loyal, mustn't he? If not for her sake, then perhaps for her father's sake he would not betray them if she confessed. He was also a clever man, someone who could rationally consider even difficult and painful situations.

No, no, no! She fidgeted sharply with her braided hair, pulling it from side to side. There was too much that could go wrong by including him. These observations about his character, however true they were, were no guarantee that he might not disappoint her hopes and trust.

A quieter voice within her argued that he would never act in a manner so unlike himself. Even if he could _do_ nothing for them, he would never betray a confidence. He was not deceitful.

Is it worth the risk? she wondered, even as she felt herself relenting. There was risk in any undertaking, after all. And if this was her answer, well . . . that was what faith was about, wasn't it?

She would not think about how uncomfortable it would be to approach him. She would only pray. Was this seemingly foolhardy idea His will? Or was it a desperate collection of thoughts brought on by fatigued delirium?

The feeling was almost too faint to notice, for her mind was still loudly asking a thousand questions at once. But it did come, small as it was, and Margaret knew what she must do, no matter the personal mortification it must cost her. That one iota of peace she had not felt in hours had returned.

She decided to leave the house before the sun came up. First, she might lose her nerve if she delayed. Second, she had no intention of telling her family what she was doing, so it was only common sense to leave before they woke. Third, she hoped to make the walk to Marlborough Mills before any of the workers arrived. With any luck, Mr. Thornton would be alone and there would be minimal risk of being overheard. Heaven alone knew what her reputation might suffer now, for of course the streets were never entirely empty, but her reputation was nothing in comparison to Fred's safety.

The sun broke over the unseen horizon on her way, and she hurried on, doubts and questions still plaguing her. Perhaps if she walked quickly enough, they would fall behind. Of course this did not happen, and she stopped in the middle of the road to give herself a proper scolding. She had decided once again on a course, she told herself firmly, and it was her duty to follow it through, come what may.

The Marlborough gate had never looked so imposing before, but she pushed it open a small way with more bravery than she felt. She was relieved to see the yard was empty, so something had worked in her favor. Now to see if Mr. Thornton was at work. She sincerely prayed he would be; a forbidding shudder ran through her at the idea of knocking directly at his nearby home.

The office door opened easily at her touch. She was inside. Was it too late to turn back? She could simply leave. Twice, she almost turned around, nerves making her mouth dry and her stomach weak. And then the silence was broken.

"Williams? Is that you?"

No avoiding him now, she thought to herself. He knew someone was there. She stepped forward and closed the distance to the doorway where she had heard his voice. And, too soon for her frazzled nerves, there he was. And there she was, bold as brass, standing before him.

His coat had been slung on the back of the chair he sat in, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. He held a pen in his hand. But these details were lost to her observation as she took in the astonishment on his face. His blue eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, and in that moment she was more tempted than ever to flee.

Speaking seemed impossible now and she could not hold his shocked gaze. She closed her eyes briefly, gathering her courage and trying to remember the small answer of peace that brought her here in the first place. She must see this through.

When she opened her eyes, she saw his initially shocked reaction shifting into confused concern, evidenced by the furrow of his brow and the tilt of his head as he rose from the chair.

"Miss Hale," he murmured, half in greeting, half in question.

She took a deep breath. "Mr. Thornton." She inclined her head in greeting as she stepped inside his office. With only the slightest hesitation, she took hold of the door and pushed it close. She turned back to see that his eyes had enlarged again in surprise. What was becoming of her? she asked silently even as she made herself stand strong before him.

"I must speak with you, sir."

* * *

.

 **A/N** : Gotta love those persistent plot bunnies that don't leave you alone, right? I was thinking to myself, "Okay, in the book, the Hales decide in the evening that Fred's got to go, but it's not until the NEXT night that he leaves? (whereas the movie makes it simply that same night) How stressed would I be just waiting for that WHOLE day to go to the train station? I would be psyching myself out the entire time, wondering if we were doing the right thing." Hence, Margaret's dilemma that kicks off my plot deviation. As ever, I kind of blend my inspiration from both the book and the movie, as you might notice from the forgotten gloves that were a thing in the movie but not in the book. Anyway, there are a million other things I could say, but I'm going to stop myself there and let the story speak for itself. Hope you enjoy!


	2. The Revelation

That she was there at all was mystifying enough. She had made it abundantly clear that being in his company was repulsive to her, and he couldn't fathom why she would seek him out, even during the best of circumstances. But for her to be there now, so soon after her mother's death and while she must be grieving, it only compounded the mystery.

Added to this was her confounding action of closing the door behind her. He couldn't help remembering an occasion when he had been the one to close out the world to them. They had not been in such close proximity to each other since that day; indeed, he had been sure they would never be so again. He ruefully mused that she could not possibly be here to mirror all of his actions from that day. Her manner of speaking did not suggest a passionate interlude.

Not knowing at all what to expect, he motioned to the chair across the desk. "Please, be seated then," he said in response to her words. Could she see how puzzled he was? She stood formally, almost stiffly, giving away nothing. He settled back into his own chair, waiting for her to follow suit.

Her stiffness gave way to the hesitance that had slowed her feet only moments before, for she still stood upright. But she did look around her nervously, as though afraid of being surrounded by enemies and was trying to find the nearest escape. He was suddenly struck with the thought that something had her greatly agitated, and whatever it was extended beyond the distress she must already be feeling. Afraid that this meant that something else had gone wrong in her home, that Mr. Hale was somehow in some danger, he worriedly asked, "What has happened, Miss Hale? Your father, has anything -"

"No, no," she interrupted quickly, reaching out a hand to calm his alarmed inquiry. "Do not distress yourself, my father is well." She checked herself with a glance to the floor. "That is, well as he can be under the circumstances," she amended quietly.

"Of course," he spoke now just as quietly. He had felt a little foolish asking what had happened when it was too clear what was occurring in her family, but he was relieved to know nothing else calamitous had taken place.

She still had not moved from her position, and another awkward silence fell. He roused himself to continue. "Please allow me to express my condolences," he said softly. "I know what it is to lose a parent. I am very sorry for your loss, Miss Hale."

She nodded in response. "Thank you, Mr. Thornton." The brief energy she had needed to exert herself to assure him and now to accept his sympathy was finally enough to move, and she now sat in the proffered chair. But though she sat nearer to him, she was no closer to knowing how to begin what she must say. "I understood that you came to our home yesterday."

"Yes," he replied awkwardly. "To see your father. But I do understand his feelings at not seeing me. I was not offended at being turned away."

"He will be relieved to hear that. He was sorry to send you back. He was simply . . . unable to see anyone." For more reasons than Mr. Thornton knew, she thought.

He nodded in comprehension. "Of course. But whenever he requires me, I am at his service." With a tremor in his voice, he pressed forward. "I am also at your service, Miss Hale. If there is any help you need at this time – or any other time – please believe that I am honored and glad to be of any use to you."

She lifted her head in wonder at his words. Little did he know what she would ask of him, and here he had given her a perfect opening. The feeling way he spoke touched her heart tenderly, and she was too overcome by his kind tone at the moment for speech. She had hoped that she would be able to stay in control of her feelings, but they refused to be suppressed. Too much had happened in the last few days for her to be unaffected by the sympathetic way he expressed himself, especially in contrast to the cold manner they both had been forcing upon each other the past few weeks. It was all too much for her vulnerable and trembling heart to behave coolly any longer.

For his part, her silence and stare meant something very different. He would not retract what he said, nor look away in shame, but he was certain she was interpreting his offer in the worst way, as an affront to her dignity and an unwanted revelation of his continued regard. He knew he took a risk by speaking so unguardedly, but his compassion and love for her demanded he do so. He was not a machine, unable to repress his natural impulse to comfort her in a time of need. But she must be so offended that he would offer himself up as some sort of champion to save her from her grief. She must despise him even more than she already had.

This was why it was another shock to him when her eyes, so capable of regally looking down on him and flashing with indignation, now brimmed over with moisture. No sooner had her eyes filled with tears, than those tears came spilling and crashing down over her cheeks, and she had to avert her head, stifling an unmistakable sob. In an instant, he was kneeling at her side, wrestling a handkerchief from his pocket, and boldly placing a hand on her arm as she gave vent to her cries. His boldness was hardly registered at all by her; she did nothing to acknowledge his presence beyond accepting the handkerchief he held out.

Never before had he seen her composure crumble, and he felt helpless in the face of her sorrow. He was completely unaware of how to comfort his own sister, although he had long ago ceased to try. In any case, Fanny had never cried like this in front of him – only complained and harangued. His own mother never gave way to great feeling, either, and he would have been at a loss to help her if she did. As for Margaret, he longed to enfold her in his arms until her sobs ceased, but although she had not rebuffed his hand on her arm, she was sure to cast him away with some choice words if he dared such a liberty.

"Miss Hale," he began softly as her cries faded. "I apologize for offending you. I only wish to help you. I did not intend to upset you, but I obviously have." She had not looked his way yet, although she was now quiet. "Tell me what I must do to make amends."

With an incredulous eye, she now turned to him, traces of her tears still present on her face. He had to stop himself from reaching up to wipe them away.

"You do not know," she whispered. "You do not know what you offer, Mr. Thornton." Another tear escaped her, and with a quaking hand she brushed it off. Taking an unsteady breath to calm the flutterings in her heart and stomach. "You do not know," she murmured again, looking away to stare intently at her hands and the handkerchief they grasped. How could she face him and say it?

Still quietly, but more deliberately, he spoke. "Then tell me."

She turned her face to him once more. The compassion he had spoken with was still there in his eyes, but also strength. He was intent on knowing what drove her to his door, and the fierceness of his powerful eyes seemed to probe into her soul. Another quavering breath, and she asked, "Can I trust you, Mr. Thornton?"

Had she asked him any other day under any other circumstances, he would have been offended. Had he not proven to her that he was honorable? Had he done nothing to earn her confidence? But now he saw the depths from which she crawled to ask such a simple, yet crucial question. She was humbling herself before him now, and she was afraid. Terribly afraid. This extraordinary woman who had braved a violent mob to protect him was frightened by whatever she had come to speak, and this realization halted the injury to his feelings such a question would otherwise have prompted.

With a firm set to his mouth, he moved his hand to cover hers in her lap. For only a moment she looked down in surprise, but something impelled her to say nothing and to simply meet his gaze head-on again. He looked at her long and carefully, studying her as she studied him. Finally, he broke the silence. "You can. You _must_ know you can trust me."

His deep voice echoed through her very bones, and she let herself believe him. That he was sincere was clear, and that she felt comforted, even for a moment, was a relief. But still she shook her head lightly in response. "It is not that simple, I'm afraid."

His eyes hardened and he withdrew his hand. "Then why bother asking me such a thing?" he asked, some frustration seeping into his quiet voice.

"Because you cannot imagine what I wish to – what I _am_ here to tell you. You may change your mind." Now she dropped her head again, ashamed that she let her doubts cloud those brief moments of peace and comfort.

Only her earlier display kept any of his budding anger at bay. Why did she have to be so infuriating? Why could she not simply believe him and leave it at that? "I will not," he replied firmly. How he wished to force her to look at him, to take her face in his hands and keep her there, perhaps for the rest of his life. Instead he waited for her to move of her own volition. It did not take long, but it felt an eternity before she did so.

She took a final deep and weary breath as she looked at him. So slight was the nod of her head that he would have missed it were he not focused so closely on her, but it was there. "Perhaps you should sit again, Mr. Thornton," she murmured.

At once he rose and crossed back over to his chair, but he never looked away from her. He was too anxious that she might disappear if he let her out of his sight. He sat rigidly and in silence, willing himself to be patient and let her proceed at whatever pace she chose.

Still clutching his handkerchief in her hands, she began twisting it around nervously. "I'm afraid . . . I don't know where to begin. I may not be very clear."

"I'm listening." His voice was a mere rumble, but his gaze was constant and he exuded an air of keen interest.

It was easier for her to look away as she spoke, but even as she directed her words to the floor, she knew he was listening, just as he said. "To be perfectly honest," her voice stumbled. "I- I do not know what you could possibly do _to_ help, Mr. Thornton. I only felt – that is, I felt . . . I must come and ask. There may be nothing at all you can do for us, and . . . I suppose that would be all right, but – there must be a _reason_ that you were my . . . answer."

"Answer?" he inquired, puzzled.

She shook her head ferociously. "That is not what matters. Not now, anyway. I am here. And if I don't tell you now, I may never do so."

"Then tell me," he repeated his invitation.

She closed her eyes once more, praying for strength and courage. If God had truly told her to come here, the least He could do was help her speak.

"You do not know I have a brother." There. It was begun. She could continue now. She still could not bring herself to look at Mr. Thornton, so she did not see his stunned reaction, but he said nothing beyond an audible intake of breath. "His name is Frederick. He is . . . many years my senior. We do not talk about him, nor do we see him. _Why_ we do not . . . this is a secret we keep."

She hated the inarticulate way she spoke, but she gave Frederick's history, keeping her eyes stubbornly averted from Mr. Thornton. She spoke about the ship, the captain, the mutiny, and Frederick's subsequent removal to Spain. Mr. Thornton was too well acquainted with the law to know what danger her brother would be in if he were discovered in England, so she did not elaborate on the consequences of Frederick's brave, if criminal, actions.

Shocked as he was at this revelation, he failed to see what had her so frightened. It was a sad history for her to relate, obviously, and it must be painful for her family to be separated from Frederick, but as long as he stayed away, he was safe. Until she began to speak of her mother's unabashed favoritism of her son. He felt his chest constrict at a suspicion of what she was about to tell him as she mentioned Mrs. Hale's memories and love for Frederick. Surely he was wrong. His suspicions had to be wrong. A man would not be so foolhardy as to risk . . . But still he did not interrupt her, even as she wound her way to confirming what he speculated.

"And then Mother became so ill," she was saying. "She knew her time was fast approaching, and she became desperate." Margaret little knew that Mr. Thornton by now could clearly see the end of this history and what brought her here, so engrossed was she by the tale. "She was heartbroken to think that she would die without seeing Fred again, and she made me promise to write to him, to tell him of how close she was to death. She knew . . . and I knew . . . that if he were made aware of it, he would come. Heaven alone knows what compelled me to make such a promise and to carry it out, but I did, not really knowing how preposterous or dangerous it was. If my father had known, he would have stopped me, but I didn't tell him until it was too late."

She shook her head, still irked by her naivety. It was the first lull in nearly ten minutes of speaking, and she would have continued if his voice hadn't arrested her.

"Your brother is here."

She raised her eyes finally to see him staring intently at her. His face was deadly serious, and she could only think of one response.

"My brother is here," she repeated.

* * *

 **A/N:** Anyone who is a writer here will know that your characters don't always act how you plan; as you actually write them out, their personalities direct them to say different things and behave in different ways than you initially thought, and this can be really frustrating. This conversation between Margaret and Thornton isn't really much different than I first imagined, but I first envisioned them being a LOT colder to each other before the major revelation. And then Margaret went and cried on me! And what could John do BUT try and comfort her and be gentle and tender? His response is actually supported from the book. When he visits Mr. Hale after Mrs. Hale's funeral, Margaret's there and he is compelled to offer her some sympathetic words and he speaks really kindly to her, and this is AFTER the events of Outwood station and he's ticked off and confused. But even then he's kind to her in the face of her mother's death, and she's not able to say anything in reply because she's overwhelmed by his kindness. So even though this part of their conversation ended up being warmer than I first outlined, it's not _completely_ out of character, at least for him. I hope that, even though they will not act as their original counterparts did, John and Margaret are still recognizable to you. Thanks for your reviews so far! They buoy me up.


	3. A Request and a Promise

She was terrified of what he would say next. And as the silence stretched on, her apprehension increased. A small part of her hoped that his refusal to speak was from a stupor of thought such as she had experienced on her arrival. But she was almost sure that he said nothing due to furious disapproval. His austere look revealed nothing of his thoughts, but she knew too well of the passionate emotion he was capable of hiding behind his master's mask.

She was about to speak again, if only to break the thick tension, but a grating sound outside distracted both of them before she was able to say a word. He swiveled his head around to see the mill gate being opened wide by his overseer, and before turning back to her, he looked toward the clock on the wall. She followed his gaze, instantly dismayed over how much time had already passed. As much as she told herself that her good name was worth little in such a dangerous situation, she felt foolish for once more making herself such an easy target for Milton tittle-tattle.

"I assume there is more you wish to tell me regarding your brother," he finally spoke, quietly and quickly. "But I am afraid I must postpone any further conversation. Obviously you can see that the first of my workers has arrived and many more will come. It will be better for you to leave now before too many see you."

Of course she knew he was right and she was grateful that he would still attempt to safeguard her reputation as much as possible, but she felt she must protest. Delay would do nothing to help Frederick.

He could see her about to disagree and stood forcefully. "I will hear you, Miss Hale, but you should consider that the more eyes that are on you, the more eyes are on your family and home. You would not wish to expose your brother in that way, would you?"

She dropped her head for a moment. "No, I would not."

"Then I would strongly suggest that you go."

She hated acquiescing so easily, but still she stood and began to turn away. His coldness did nothing to comfort her and she felt herself on the verge of tears again. She was a failure. What good could she possibly do for her brother now?

"But if you would wait for me in the next street, I will accompany you home and you might tell me the rest on the way there."

She whirled around at this unexpected addendum. "You would -?"

"If you will go now," he interrupted her, still maintaining his business-like tone. His gaze was intense and severe, but she felt some satisfaction in knowing that he had not concluded their conversation permanently. "There will be fewer people by the drapers' shops, and you should avoid the main crowd if you hurry. I will be along as soon as I can."

Taking his words to heart, she fled without so much as a by-your-leave. He let out a long breath at her departure and turned back to the window to see her walk quickly through the yard and disappear beyond the gate. He shook his head for a moment, wondering at these Hales. Her, for once more risking her reputation; her father, for uprooting his family for his conscience's sake; her brother, for agreeing to his mother's dying wish and returning to England. All were worthy of admiration, for he could see the honorable motives behind each one, but sometimes he could not believe that they were a family who fully comprehended the consequences of their actions.

Did she know the precarious position she put all of them in, coming to confide in him? As a magistrate, he was called upon to uphold the law. In any other case, if he was aware of a known mutineer in his midst, he would feel honor-bound to turn that man in. It was harsh, perhaps, but it was the law, and he was generally assured in his reliance on it. He returned to his chair, propped an elbow onto the desk, and proceeded to rub his forehead in his hand. What in heaven's name had prompted her to seek him out? And to what purpose?

There was no question in his mind of helping her. Of course he would, and of course he would do anything within his power to protect her family, but he hoped she appreciated the gravity of the situation she laid at his feet. Whatever it was she wished to ask of him was going to be no easy task; that much was clear. He sighed, rubbing roughly now at his jaw. He had not expected this particular complication today. He pulled out some loose sheets of paper and picked up his pen.

As she reached the street he indicated and found a secluded curve in the buildings, she thanked heaven silently that he had sent her away when he did. Though by some miracle she had not seen anybody as she exited Marlborough Mills, the unmistakable sound of approaching voices and feet began to get nearer as she turned out of the mill street. Though she was still close by the mill, she was far enough beyond their reach that she felt quite safe. Already she was in a street that would not be busily frequented for one or two hours, as the shops opened later than the mills did. Now to wait, and how long that would be she did not know, but she knew he would come, and she must convince the familiar anxiety rising within her to stay away until he did.

For nearly twenty minutes she stood, at times succeeding, and others utterly failing, at remaining calm. Twice she had seriously considered returning home alone and simply forgetting that she had ever done such a rash thing. But she talked herself out of doing this with a simple argument. She had already come so far; there was no point risking her character with nothing to show for it, after all. Still, it was with profound relief that she saw Mr. Thornton's familiar figure come into view.

He had donned his coat again, as well as his hat, which added to his already-imposing height, and he walked with great decision straight toward her. He tipped his hat to her slightly when he reached her, but they both felt it unnecessary to give each other opening pleasantries again, and so without saying anything they walked on their way.

"I think it would be childish of me to say that I hope I have not disrupted your morning, Mr. Thornton," she finally stammered out. "I know I have. But I hope you will not resent me for it."

Sparing a quick glance toward her, he replied, "No, indeed. I would not resent you in this present circumstance."

She forced herself to ignore the implication that there were other circumstances that would make him resent her. "It is . . . difficult to express all of my feelings on the matter. There is a great deal at stake for my brother now, and -"

"I can imagine," was the instant response. "But perhaps you should continue with what you were going to say in my office. You did not wish to tell me only of your brother's existence, nor of his presence in Milton now."

At least she had a reason to not meet his eye as they walked, having to concentrate on where she stepped. It was all too mortifying and uncomfortable, but he was right. "No, I did not."

She proceeded to inform him of the events of the preceding day and their family's decision for Fred to leave on the train that night. This account took them beyond Milton-proper and to the crossroads into various districts and suburbs, one of which being Crampton. It was here that Margaret paused. She had laid before Mr. Thornton the facts of the case and now came the time for her request. But a request for what, she was still unsure. And until she knew precisely what she was asking of him, her steps would falter at the turning.

As before, he had said nothing as she spoke, only walking with his hands clasped behind his back, head bent toward her. But as she slowed and ceased speech, he stopped along with her and stood erect. "It appears to me, Miss Hale, that your family has chosen a wise course. It was risky enough for your brother to come, but with an old acquaintance of his, and an unfriendly one at that, it is better that he leave."

He visibly hesitated before speaking again. "But why do you come to me? If your family has already made a decision and a plan for carrying it out, I do not understand why you would expand the circle of trust unnecessarily."

"You believe I have acted foolishly, then?" she asked, her lips ever ready to tremble.

"Do not misunderstand me, Miss Hale. You are in no danger from me. I could never injure you or your father by betraying your brother's whereabouts to the authorities."

She allowed herself a sigh of relief at this statement. At least her faith had been rewarded in one small but vital way.

"But again I must inquire why you tell me of all this now." He maintained a stern set to his mouth, but his eyes were pleading.

She felt herself reply without knowing how she was doing so. "In the first place, to seek your counsel. If ever we needed a friend to advise us, it is now. And you _are_ the best friend my father has here in Milton. He relies on you. He is in need of a friend. He needs reassurance that we have not chosen ill." How convenient for her that her needs matched those of her father's, but she did not say so. "And in the second place, if you judged our actions to be wrong, to help us find another solution. If there is a better way for Fred to leave, or if there is something we have overlooked in order to make a hasty decision . . . we trust your reason and wisdom to help us see all possibilities."

What she said made sense, although his heart could not help latching on to her use of the word "we" as she spoke of him being a friend and trust in him. He had not believed she thought there was any good in him, but perhaps he was not as lowly in her eyes as he supposed. However, his mind argued that she had said more of his being of use to her father than to her. He admonished himself to quash hope; what little favor she gave would mean nothing in the long run.

"And your father thought it wise to send you to me, to expose yourself?"

Here she blushed. "My father does not know what I have done," she admitted softly.

He nearly lurched in place, so shocked was he at this revelation. She had sought him out of her own accord? This possibility had never occurred to him in the last hour, even though he was aware of her independent character. But for her to take such a drastic step without consulting her father? There was only one question that sprang to his mind and lips. "Why?"

Her emotions began to rise once more within her to this fervent inquiry. "He would have stopped me; I left without telling anyone."

His shock, though mute, thundered vehemently in his eyes.

She hurried to explain herself, to speak beyond the threatening tears. "We made our decision last night. And I thought . . . I thought at the time that it was right, that there was nothing else to be done but wait until tonight and send Fred off with the most possible secrecy. But then . . ." she allowed herself to look at him with a beseeching gaze. "I have never felt so wretched and lost as I did all night. I have been so full of doubt. And fear," she faltered at this admission.

He took a step closer to her, instinct urging him to comfort her. What had happened to make her lay her innermost thoughts bare to him?

"I felt ill and anxious, and completely uncertain of our plan. I could not escape the apprehension that all would go wrong and that my brother would pay for my error in judgment. I could not rest believing that we were all terribly wrong. And then . . ." she looked away, unable to stop another blush. "And then . . ." she repeated. He leaned in to hear her whisper. "I thought of you."

She was mortified at how she must appear. She was sure - no, she _knew_ she sounded melodramatic and forward. What must he think of her now?

Something she had uttered in his office an hour before revived itself in his mind, pushing its way through his amazement at her confession. "I was your answer," he prompted gently and incredulously.

Margaret passed her hand over her eyes to wipe away the traitorous tears that had managed to trickle out. She had gone too far for maidenly evasions. "Yes."

He leaned back now, not knowing at all how to respond to this. Revelation on top of revelation had made his mind race with too many thoughts, and, unable to organize them coherently, he said nothing.

Again she wouldn't look directly at him, but she bravely went on. "When I thought of you, I felt . . ." another blush infused her cheeks. "I felt some peace. I didn't know what I wished of you, Mr. Thornton, but I knew that I must go to you. It was . . ." she sighed in mild frustration. "It sounds silly and childish, even naïve. But I felt it was an answer to prayer. And I knew I must act in accordance with it."

If he thought she had humbled herself before, it was nothing to what he saw in her now. The proud, majestic, independent spirit he so loved in her had reduced itself to be meek and lowly. She was a woman who sacrificed her dignity at his altar, and he felt compassion swell in his breast as he contemplated her. He had never seen her so clearly, and he would do whatever he could to preserve her – all of her.

Feeling it impertinent to touch her, he simply cleared his throat to draw her attention back to him. "Well, perhaps we had better go on to your home. I did, after all, leave notes for my business associates to tell them I had been called to my grieving friend's side by his daughter. It would not do to make a liar out of me."

She saw he was offering her a moment to compose herself in addition to informing her of his steps to explain her presence to any who might have seen her. She squared her shoulders and nodded, deliberately taking several long breaths.

"I cannot promise that I will be able to offer any new perspectives or solutions to your situation, Miss Hale," he continued. "But perhaps I will know better what assistance I can give once we return to your home and I am able to speak to your father and brother. It may be that we simply continue with the plan you have laid out, but if there is any way I can help, I will do so. I give you my word," he intoned his words with as much assurance as he could, "I will do my utmost to not fail in the trust you have placed in me."

For a moment, Margaret forgot to breathe, so overwhelmed was she by his intense gaze and heartfelt vow. Something unknown stirred within her in that moment, but it passed so quickly she was unable to name it. She simply turned her feet to Crampton and they went on, all too aware of the potentially disastrous scene that would occur when they reached her home.

* * *

 **A/N:** As I wrote this, I realized I didn't want more reason for Margaret to have people gossip about her, and I had just put her in a prime position for it! OOPS. So John's initial actions at the beginning of this chapter were my way of sloppily trying to fix it (as well as giving him a couple of extra minutes alone to take in what she just told him. Hello, bombshell!). She would totally not escape detection, really, but this is my attempt to keep any rumors at a tiny, whispered murmur rather than a loud shout! I also hope you guys don't mind that I'm not making him angst too much over deciding to help. He could potentially be in a real quandary about going against his usual morals, but at the same time, he LOVES Margaret. He stops an inquest to protect her; I wouldn't put it past him to protect her brother. My husband actually thought I would make him waver a lot more rather than immediately deciding to jump into the fray. Haha, fooled him! Anyway, that's my justification for some sloppy clean-up work and lack of angsty vacillation. Hope you still approve so far!


	4. Familial Strife

Margaret sat in wonder at the three men in front of her. There was her father, still unable to sit fully erect, and who could blame him? His beloved companion had passed away from him, and he felt useless in the problem that now lay before them all. Her brother, tense and suspicious, his narrowed eyes betraying his lingering anger at her and the man he spoke to. And that man, Mr. Thornton, sitting straight-backed and tall even as he probed for further information. To all appearances, he alone was rational and calm, but Margaret suspected it was a feint.

Barely a half-hour before, he had followed her into the house to great uproar. Dixon, being the first to notice an hour before that she had gone, was frantic on her arrival. So panicked had the servant been, she had eyes at first only for Margaret to scold her for worrying them all, completely unobserving of the gentleman walking through the front door. She had done nothing to lower her voice, which had consequently summoned Frederick from the drawing room to add his worried inquiries. That, to him, was his fatal mistake, for he could not avoid the detection of the man behind his sister.

Too late, Dixon was aware that Margaret had not returned alone, and with a frightened gasp, she whirled around to warn the young master to stay hidden. But her cries died on her lips to see him already at the top of the stairs, eyes fixed on the unknown man who regarded him just as intently. Dixon could do nothing except bury her face in her hands, now that the dear young master was exposed. Without another coherent word, she flew to the kitchens and still had not emerged.

Frederick had not quailed or attempted escape, but he could not fully conceal the rage in his voice as he quietly asked, "What have you done, Margaret?" He may as well have shouted, so penetrating were his words in Margaret's ears.

Mr. Thornton had remained quiet, which was probably wise, as it was her responsibility to confess her actions and reasoning. But it was not easy for her to step forward and respond to her brother's accusatory question. With a quaking breath, she replied, "I went to find help, Fred."

This only increased his ire as he gripped the railing in an attempt to control himself. "Help?" he practically snarled. "What help do we need? There is nothing we need that we cannot do for ourselves."

"I do not agree," she said. "You do not know what -"

" _I_ do not know?" he interrupted angrily, now stalking down the stairs. " _I_ do not know? Don't you dare say such things to me, Margaret. You do not know what you have done; you may have killed me!"

He had reached the bottom of the stairs by now and looked ready to pounce on her, and it was then that Mr. Thornton moved to stand alongside her. He still said nothing, but his message was clear. Frederick had better keep his distance from his sister or he would indeed be in some peril. Frederick stopped in his tracks, unwilling to cross this man with the warning in his eyes.

"Who is this man?" he hurled out instead. "What is he that you would damn us all?"

"I would not speak so blasphemously, Mr. Hale," Mr. Thornton now spoke evenly. "No earthly being has that power, not even Miss Hale. I do not think your father would wish to hear you tossing about your words so carelessly."

"Is that so?" Frederick sneered, now looking directly at him. "And you are so well-acquainted with my father that you can speak for him?"

"Frederick!" Margaret exclaimed, hoping to direct his venom back on her.

But Mr. Thornton spoke again, keeping his voice steady. "I do not dare speak for any man, but I do have a high respect for your father. He is a good friend to me, just as I wish to be to him. And I would advise you to think well before you speak further in such a manner to Miss Hale. She has done only what she feels is right, and that is the best that any of us can wish to do."

Frederick did flinch at him slightly, seeing more and more that this was not a man to be intimidated, but he was not any closer to being placated. He glared furiously as he asked, "And you are an expert on my sister's feelings, as well?" Even Mr. Thornton could not suppress a slight flush at this question, but Frederick was too angry to notice, especially since he was not actually interested in hearing an answer. "Again I ask, who are you that you think you know my family better than I do?"

Before he could give his name, another voice spoke it, one weak with sorrow and wonder. "John?" All of them turned their attention to Mr. Hale, who now appeared at the top of the stairs. Margaret was sure he had never before looked so frail. "I heard voices, and I didn't know . . ." he trailed off feebly, looking back and forth among them. "What are you doing here?"

Observing her father now, sitting next to his son and friend, Margaret thought with a sharp pang that Mr. Hale's frailty had not waned. She had hoped that Mr. Thornton's presence would do something to assure and strengthen him, but he was only listless and weary.

At least his appearance at the top of the stairs had effectively quelled some of Frederick's aggressive displeasure. His harsh interrogation softened once he was informed that Mr. Thornton was the very man his family had spoken so well of only the night before.

But even after Margaret's abridged account of her actions (she did not dare reveal all of her motivations or reservations to her family), Frederick still regarded Mr. Thornton with heavy suspicion, which Margaret supposed she could not blame him for. And when her father off-handedly mentioned Mr. Thornton's position as a magistrate, his suspicion nearly flared into rage once more, and only Margaret's pleadings along with Mr. Thornton's steady assurances were enough to calm him again.

So there her brother sat, still occasionally sending her a resentful glance, but at least reluctantly willing to allow Mr. Thornton to speak. Margaret could only guess what that gentleman was thinking, but he had not once shown signs of wavering or perturbation. For once she was grateful for his ability to at least appear unruffled, since she was sure that if he showed any hint of unease, Frederick might misinterpret him and balk like a trapped animal.

Mr. Thornton himself was apprehensive on the same score and kept himself under good regulation for just such reason. He did not want to give the young man any more reason to doubt him than he already did, and proceeding logically and coolly was the best way he knew how to maintain some peace. Although, he thought to himself, if young Mr. Hale did anything more to his sister beyond the obvious glares he threw her way, there was no controlling what _he_ might do in retaliation.

So far they had merely recounted the facts Margaret had already told him, but he had felt it necessary to hear everybody's impressions of the events, in case there was something new to glean. He sat in quiet contemplation, trying his best to think without becoming overly distracted with concern for Margaret. There was no denying, after all, that it was she whom he wished most to protect.

"So?" Frederick Hale interrupted his musings, seemingly unable to keep severe disdain from his voice. "What do you think, Mr. Thornton? Does our plan meet with your great approval?"

With such provocation, it was difficult not to sneer in response, but Margaret spoke first. "There is no need for that, Fred," she protested. "I know you are unhappy with me, but Mr. Thornton is here as a friend to help us all."

Frederick huffed, but Mr. Hale also stirred himself to say, "Margaret is right, my boy. Whatever else John is, he is a friend. Perhaps there is something he sees that we do not."

Margaret privately thought her father would be more convincing if he did not sound so wary himself, but at least it was enough of a reprimand that Frederick looked a little ashamed of himself. She turned back to Mr. Thornton, who made no move to comment on the family interaction.

Indeed, he would not dare such a thing. Instead, he kept his focus on their chief dilemma. "Once you are gone from Milton, which port do you plan to take? I have contacts in the port cities; perhaps they may be of some use."

"I'm not sure," Frederick shrugged. "I'll decide once I'm in London. I will have a day there, at least."

This _was_ new information for Mr. Thornton, and he allowed himself a glance to Margaret, who drew in a deep breath at the realization that she had forgotten to mention this aspect of their plan. "I can't deny that London is a good place to hide yourself, and you can easily get on a packet ship from there," he said in some confusion, "but why would you spend a day there?"

At first he was greeted with silence, but Frederick eventually spoke in challenge to his question. "I simply plan to meet with a lawyer regarding my case. Is that a problem?"

Again he repressed his desire to throttle this insolent young man. "It is if this lawyer gives you away. It is if you are delayed in seeing him. It is if you make yourself an easier target by remaining longer in England."

"You say yourself that London is a good place to hide. It is certainly on my way back to Spain, even if I stop there for a time. Margaret herself assures me of Mr. Lennox's honor and integrity. You would not doubt her word on him if her judgment is to also apply to you. Would you?" Frederick was sure he won a point there, looking over to Margaret, who was now trying to hide her embarrassment. Of course her brother did not know why, but it was exceptionally awkward for her to even mention Henry to Mr. Thornton. But he himself had also turned to her, silently requiring her to speak.

"It is true," she affirmed. "Henry Lennox is my cousin's brother-in-law, and I do believe he is an honorable man who would not expose Frederick. I also know that his reputation as a lawyer is good and he is generally thought very clever. I would trust him. And," she continued, feeling it incumbent to admit her culpability, "it was my suggestion for Frederick to see him in the first place."

"I see." He was silent for a moment, then turned back to Frederick. "Whatever evidence you can offer, do you truly believe there is a chance of your being pardoned? That if your word and case were tried in a court-martial, you would be cleared?" He spoke carefully and sincerely, for he did not want to make any of the Hales feel foolish for hinging their hopes on such expectations. But someone had to speak realistically.

For the first time, Frederick Hale looked at him without a semblance of resentment. Instead he seemed to understand what Mr. Thornton was asking and why.

"I cannot be your judge, Mr. Hale. Only God knows the intents of your heart and why you acted as you did. But no matter what moral or godly laws you followed to liberate those suffering on your ship, according to the mortal law of the land we live in, you are a criminal. Even the best lawyer could not conceal your actions, only explain your motives. And even then we both know the Navy is unforgiving when facing bare facts. Do you really think you can succeed?"

A heavy and sorrowful silence permeated the room. Margaret could not tear her eyes away from the man who was trying to say as carefully as he could that her hopes were nothing more than childish ignorance. She hated that he was right, but she could not fault him for saying the words. She had invited him in to do just that, and he clearly took as little pleasure in speaking the unhappy truth as they did in hearing it. Frederick held Mr. Thornton's gaze for a long time, considering and weighing the questions put to him.

Finally, with a sigh, he looked down at the ground. "No, I do not think I would be cleared. It would be a fool's errand to remain in London longer than necessary."

This admission did little to relieve the tension in the room, and Mr. Thornton allowed the Hales a quiet moment, but he knew that was all the time he could spare. Although the events of the morning had certainly begun early, if they spent too much time discussing and then remaining quiet, it would be mid-morning before any more decisions were made.

"So if you are not to remain in London, would it be wise to travel through it at all?" he tentatively began. "It is safer to hide in great numbers, and London certainly has those, but there are other cities that draw sufficient industry to conceal yourself easily."

Frederick nodded absently, and Mr. Thornton took the opportunity to glance Margaret's way. She bit her lip pensively, unsure if she should speak. But his look to her seemed an invitation. "What would you suggest, Mr. Thornton?"

"Truth be told, I would go by way of Liverpool. It is by far the closest port and also has the benefit of being one of the largest. There is a great deal of traffic going in and out and you can easily and quickly find a ship going where you need."

Margaret chanced a look toward her brother. "That does seem sound," she said quietly.

He only looked at her out of the side of his eye; he seemed unwilling to meet anybody's gaze head-on. "I suppose it is."

With that same pensive look, Margaret turned to her father, who nodded. "Yes. Whatever will get Fred out of England, I will support. Go to Liverpool, Fred. Make yourself safe first."

Margaret now met Mr. Thornton's eye again. "Is there a train that would take him there?"

"Yes. I do not remember the times, but I can make the necessary inquiries and send you word. In fact . . ." he hesitated, not wishing to overstep. "I will come for you in my carriage, Mr. Hale. If there is anything we can do to keep you out of sight, we should do so."

Frederick now looked up. "Won't there be talk? What will people say about your carriage taking an unknown man to the train station?"

"There may be talk, but it will not be enough to concern _me_ ," Mr. Thornton replied with confidence. "We will be gone too quickly for it to be a hindrance to our plans. And though I am not entirely immune to gossip, there are still few in Milton who care to bandy my name about."

He now stood, thinking it best to return to the mill quickly. No one would begrudge him visiting a grieving friend, but there were limits to how long he should remain. "I trust you will be safe if you stay out of sight until I come."

Frederick and Margaret stood, as well, though Mr. Hale stayed seated in his chair. " _You_ trust?" Frederick asked with only a hint of mockery.

"Well, I cannot be entirely sure, after all," Mr. Thornton replied dryly. "No one can. Although I would be more at ease if I knew more about this man Leonards, who he is and what he does in Milton."

Frederick shrugged. "You would have to ask Dixon, but she has certainly told us all she knows and we have in turn told you."

Margaret, looking toward the drawing room door, now noticed a shadow on the hall floor. How had Dixon ascended the stairs so quietly, and how long had she been listening? "Dixon?" she called out gently. "Have you anything to add?"

Her words startled Mr. Thornton and Frederick, and both snapped their heads to the doorway where the normally-formidable Dixon now stepped sheepishly into view. She was attempting to hold her head up high and proud, but her fear and embarrassment at being discovered were at war with her usual dignity. "I haven't hid anything from the family, to be sure. That scoundrel is a menace, and I would take no chances to keep anything to myself that could put Master Hale in danger."

"Of course not, Dixon, we do not doubt your loyalty," Margaret replied. "But if there is anything you may have forgotten -"

"Certainly not, Miss!" Dixon cried out. At Margaret's look, however, she dropped her head meekly. "That is, I do not think I have forgotten anything, and if I did, I would certainly say so."

Mr. Thornton felt there was nothing to say to this, and made ready to say his goodbyes when Dixon muttered audibly, "A scoundrel, he is, and no good will he bring that poor girl he has bamboozled into becoming engaged to him."

Margaret started. "He is engaged, then? You did not mention that."

Dixon brought her head up again. "Because I did not think it worth mentioning. Why should it matter that George Leonards found some fool of a girl who 'works at one of the big houses' to marry him?"

At this, Mr. Thornton's brow furrowed. He paid little attention to household matters; he left such things in his mother's capable hands. But he was not free from hearing his mother's complaints when servants behaved in ways she did not approve of. And one thing she did not approve of, was when maids became engaged. Especially to men she knew nothing of and could make no inquiries about because they were riff-raff imported from the South.

"Did he say at which big house his fiance works?" he asked with interest.

Dixon's eyes burgeoned wide and round. "No, sir, he didn't."

Margaret turned to see Mr. Thornton tilting his head in thought. "Do you think he has engaged himself to one of your servants, Mr. Thornton?"

With narrowed eyes, he replied, "I cannot be sure until I ask. I do know that one of my mother's maids has become recently engaged. If she is the same girl, I may be able to find out what kind of work Leonards has or where he spends his time, to know if he is making any trouble after seeing Dixon." He walked swiftly to the doorway. "But time is of the essence in this case, so I must go. It may be that he has forgotten all about the encounter or does not feel it worth his time to investigate, but it is better to know for sure than to assume all is well. I will send you word whatever I find. Do nothing until you hear from me."

At this, Mr. Hale roused himself to stand and extend his hand. "Thank you, John. Thank you for coming. I think with your help we will be able to come through this."

Mr. Thornton took his hand firmly, hoping to convey with all his being his sympathy and compassion for the poor man in front of him. "I am glad to help where I can, especially at this time. You may always depend on me, sir."

Mr. Hale's lips trembled and he did not trust himself to speak, but he nodded and shook Mr. Thornton's hand more vigorously in gratitude. Releasing their grip, Mr. Thornton turned to Frederick Hale, who looked as though he still did not know what to make of him. There was nothing further he could say to assure the young man, so he contented himself with a short nod to him. With a little more trepidation, he faced the woman who had set everything in motion.

Margaret once more felt overwhelmed with a myriad of emotions. He had done so much to prove himself, and he was putting himself to the trouble of doing more for her family, and she did not know what to say to him. She simply put out a hand to him, which he took quickly. She felt quiet words of gratitude slip from her lips and he nodded in acknowledgement. And then he was gone, his warm hand brushing against hers as he departed.


	5. Departure

Mr. Thornton had not been gone long before Mr. Hale excused himself from the drawing room. It would not be long now before his wife's body was laid in the ground, and he meant to spend as much time possible attending her before she was completely taken away from him. Dixon had returned to the kitchen, leaving Margaret and Frederick alone. He sat in quiet contemplation, while she, awkward and unsure of how to begin any conversation with him, moved to the window, watching the unsuspecting people pass by their house.

How long would it be before they heard from Mr. Thornton? she wondered. How quickly could he return home and make the inquiries he spoke of? What could be done for them in the end? She closed her eyes, praying and willing the heavens to help him. She prayed also for her brother, that his justified anger might abate and they might part peacefully. She prayed for his safety, for her father's weakness, for her own hope. Would that she knew the end from the beginning, so all this uncertainty might pass from her mind.

"I suppose," her brother broke the silence, "this Mr. Thornton is right, after all." She turned toward him in question. "About my leaving without consulting Mr. Lennox. I can just as easily correspond with him from Spain. That is, if we are still desirous of at least attempting to clear my name."

Margaret swiftly crossed the room to sit beside him. "Of course we still desire that, Fred. For your sake and for Dolores's, you must try. It would be a great blessing if you could somehow be pardoned. But," she curbed her fervor, "I do think that Mr. Thornton is right. It is better for you to get to safety quickly, rather than relying on a foolish action that could lead to your discovery while you are still in England."

Frederick exhaled gloomily through his nostrils, shifting his body in reluctant acquiescence. It clearly gnawed at him to accept the advice and assistance of a man still a stranger to him. Margaret laid a hand on his arm.

"It is not easy for me to admit such a thing, Fred," she said. "After all, his judgment completely contradicts my own idea. I may agree with him, but that does not mean I am entirely happy giving up something that I once thought a good plan."

He eyed her with a sarcastic lift of his brow. "It is probably still easier for you to change your mind since you were the one who went to him in the first place."

Margaret sighed. "You are right. That does help me accept his word better. But you will not make me regret my actions. I did what I thought best. And it _was_ difficult for me," she affirmed. "I did not lie awake the whole night considering the wallpaper."

Now he looked at her face-to-face. "The whole night? When did you last sleep, Margaret?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure, but that is not why I mentioned it. I wanted you to know that my decision to go to Mr. Thornton was not simply the work of a moment. I know it is a great deal to ask of you, but I hope you can try to trust him. He is risking much to help us."

Frederick sat back in his chair. " _If_ he is truly doing as you say and not simply using this time to go to the police, then you are right. He _is_ risking much." He paused, furrowing his brow in thought. "He seems to hold a high position in the area. You did not mention that when you spoke of him yesterday."

Surprised at this shift in topic, Margaret hesitated before answering. "To be honest, it did not matter yesterday. It was enough only to say that he is Father's friend."

"'A very kind friend,' you said," Frederick clarified.

"Yes," she recalled with some embarrassment. Had she spoken too well of him to her brother? "And that was why he came to see Father yesterday; he would have had no other motive. His position had nothing to do with it."

"But he is a man of influence and power. That is certainly not a hindrance in our circumstances."

"No," Margaret stammered. "But I did not think about his influence or anything else when I sought him out."

"Obviously," Frederick cut in. "Otherwise you might have thought about the fact that you were essentially informing a magistrate of the whereabouts of a known mutineer."

Margaret pursed her lips in frustration. Would he ever cease lecturing her on the potential danger she placed him in? She was about to reply, but Frederick fortunately did not seem interested in dwelling on his jab.

"It is interesting, though," he continued, "impressive, even, of how aware he is of his power."

She could not help looking at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"

With a quirk of his mouth, he said, "I don't mean that he sounded boastful, but there was no denying the authority he spoke with when he said that not many people would dare spread his name around. To wield that kind of power, and what's more, to know of it without sounding arrogant – that is impressive."

Margaret reflected on the words Frederick alluded to, and had to admit that she had also been struck by Mr. Thornton's manner of expression. She had been reminded of her impressions of him at his mother's dinner party, when he had been surrounded by colleagues and business associates. They all regarded him as an man to be respected, and yet he had not appeared tyrannical or haughty. In fact, he had seemed the greater in the simple, authoritative way he spoke his opinions. His lack of fear in the face of gossips lent itself to that same admirable air she had noticed so long ago.

"It does make me wonder how many people must be afraid of him," Frederick conjectured.

Margaret pulled herself up in objection. "That is not why he is so sure of himself, Fred!"

"Oh?" he inquired, lifting his eyebrows.

She felt herself flounder, having to take some time to gather her thoughts. She had expected that she would have to continually defend Mr. Thornton to Frederick, but on such a topic she had been unprepared. "That is . . . it is not that he thinks himself above others, but he _is_ above gossip. He is . . . where he feels he is in the right, he is sure of himself, and no amount of tittle-tattle would affect him. He is confident."

Frederick still challenged her. "But he spoke of few people being willing to 'bandy his name about.' Why would so few people wish to speculate about him if they were not afraid of him?"

"I will not deny that there must be those who do fear him. That is only a natural response when faced with a man of such great position in the town. But . . . although he is an intimidating man, he does not _strive_ to be so. There is a difference. He has strict expectations and consequences for disobedience, but he does not threaten or manipulate others."

Frederick's eyes were leveled at her in a penetrating stare. "You would have me believe he is not a hard man."

She breathed deeply. "I would not have you believe any such thing. He himself admits he is a hard man. I know he is, almost inflexible. And I do not say so in admiration, either. But though he is hard, he is also just."

"Just?"

"Yes. As I said, he has expectations and consequences, but he does not deceive others. They are laid out clearly for anybody to know. He does not punish where it is not warranted. He also does not seek revenge on those who wrong him personally. In his mill he conducts himself and his business so that the most people can benefit from his employment." She could not believe the words issuing from her; did she really notice this much about Mr. Thornton? Did she recognize these characteristics before? When had her perception of him alter so that he almost seemed benevolent when before he had appeared cold and cruel?

But she could not allow herself time to marvel at the turn of her mind regarding him. She had to face her brother. "He _is_ a hard man, Fred, but so too are many men in the North. It seems they must be, in such conditions as they are in. I cannot approve of it entirely, but I understand it better. But Mr. Thornton's sense of justice means that he will not speak to or of others in a way undeserving, and he expects others to act in a similar way regarding himself."

Frederick's challenging stare had relaxed, and he cocked his head. "You think rather well of him."

She ducked her head. "As I told you before, he is Father's friend and has been very good to our family."

"Yes, but you were not just speaking of him now as Father's friend."

"No," she admitted. She forced herself to look straight at Frederick and dearly hoped she would not blush. "I did not always think well of Mr. Thornton. In fact, I thought very badly of him from almost the instant we met. I did not like him and refused to do so. But I have since learned that my initial judgments of him were wrong, and that I was overly hasty to take up against him so blindly. I don't know if I can say unreservedly that I think well of him, but I can truthfully say I think better of him than I once did."

Frederick nodded slowly, his face betraying to Margaret the inner workings of his mind as he tried to understand her. But though she could clearly see him deliberating, she was unaware of all the thoughts now occurring to him. She did not know or even suspect that her brother was making some presumptuous speculations about her. And even had she known it, she would have been horrified to know that those speculations had a great deal to do with Mr. Thornton. As it was, she was simply glad that Frederick was no longer arguing with her.

* * *

The remainder of the morning passed all too slowly for Margaret's taste. Even as she told herself it was unreasonable to expect any messages from Mr. Thornton to arrive quickly, still she hoped they would not have to wait long. She retreated to her room, taking to pacing after an hour of stopping herself from biting her nails, a habit she had thought cured at the age of seven. But she would not give away her agitation to her family; her pride insisted she remain firm in her faith, at least in outward appearance. But each hour that passed threatened to crack the fragile shell of her innermost hopes.

Dixon prepared a light repast for them just past midday, but Mr. Hale would not come down to partake. Margaret resigned herself to taking a cup of tea up to him, and as she placed it in front of his kneeling form, there was a distinct knock at the door below. Her father threw her an apprehensive but hopeful look, and she clutched at his hand for a brief moment before rushing to the stairs.

Dixon reached the door as Margaret made her way down, and upon opening it, gave a very curt greeting that was addressed by a mumble Margaret could not hear. Dixon extended her hand beyond the door and retracted it quickly, a sheet of paper enfolded in her grip. Without another word she shut the door, and by the time she turned her back to it, Margaret had reached her.

"A note from Mr. Thornton, the boy said," Dixon said stoically, although her hand shook slightly as she handed the paper to Margaret.

"Thank you, Dixon," Margaret breathed out, excited nerves choking her breath away. She examined the folded paper in her hands, noting her father's name on the outside. As tempted as she was to rip it open, she knew she must wait for her father and brother to gather. Quickly she stepped up the stairs, calling out to them. But there was no need for her to do so, for her father had already been making his way to the drawing room as Margaret had flown about. Frederick had remained there the duration of the morning, so as she entered he was already standing, alert and tense. And unsurprisingly, Dixon had needed no invitation to follow Margaret upstairs.

"It is from Mr. Thornton," Margaret declared to her father, handing the note over to him, but wishing she could be the one to break the seal and know first what Mr. Thornton said.

Mr. Hale, quaking and weak, still performed the task with alacrity, and held the paper in front of him, reading aloud. "'Prepare for my carriage to receive you in mid-afternoon. Will not take Outwood Station, but will proceed to Manchester, where we will take the railway line to Liverpool. Explanation to come when I see you.'" After reading, he passed the note back to Margaret, who eagerly examined it herself, with Fred crowding in close behind her to see for himself.

"'We?'" he asked after reading silently through it again. "Does he mean to come with me?"

"I do not know," Margaret replied, breathless. The note was almost exactly as Mr. Hale had read it, with the exception of Mr. Thornton's signature. There was no addressed recipient. She looked up. "Father?" she said, beseeching his opinion.

Mr. Hale spoke slowly. "I am not sure, Fred. I would be easier in my mind, no matter where you went, if there was a trusted friend to accompany you, but I had not expected Mr. Thornton to put himself to such trouble. I suppose we will know for certain when he comes. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," Frederick answered. "I packed my things together this morning before we knew Margaret had gone."

"Then I am afraid we will all simply have to wait for Mr. Thornton to arrive."

Waiting for two or three more hours seemed cruel to Margaret, but there was nothing to be done for it. At least Mr. Thornton had some solid plan worked out, which was more than she had known ten minutes before. But she was also baffled by the implication from his note that Frederick would not travel alone. She had not asked for him to put himself out in such a way, and a twinge of guilt that he could be punished for his efforts would not leave her be.

But it was more important now to cherish the last precious hours they had with Frederick. Mr. Hale now remained below with them, and she and her brother put themselves to some effort to keep his spirits up. Despondent as he was about his wife's death, now he could only voice his apprehension for Frederick. Knowing his good and trusted friend was assisting them did little to relieve his fears, and he was every quarter-hour asking if Mr. Thornton had arrived.

Margaret, as every half-hour crawled by, felt herself growing weary and more sorrowful. She had gone through two sleepless nights, and had spent the better part of the last two days exerting herself for her family's sake. Now her sadness at Frederick's departure only added to her grief at her mother's death, and she finally felt free to give way at times to mourning, if silently. Frederick was doing more on his part to comfort and help their father, and it would be detrimental for Margaret to show too much of her heartache.

She stationed herself at the window, creating an excuse for herself if she ever needed to look away from Mr. Hale and Frederick. Twice, quiet tears did escape her, but she said nothing of them, and once in control of herself, could look back in the room. Seated as she was, though, she was the first to see a carriage pulling up in front of their home just before three. Quickly she stood, crying out louder than she meant to, "He is here!"

Frederick wisely did not come to the window, but Mr. Hale did, and together they saw the carriage completely stop and Mr. Thornton step out. Without another word, Margaret hastened to Frederick, throwing her arms around him in a fierce embrace. Belowstairs, they could hear the door and Dixon shuffling to answer it.

"Dear Margaret," Frederick murmured. "God only knows when we might see each other again."

"I will pray," she whispered back. "I will pray it may be sooner than we think."

They parted from each other, and Mr. Hale stepped forward to grasp his son's hand. By now, the door had opened and they could hear Mr. Thornton's firm footsteps coming up the stairs. Mr. Hale had barely time to gasp out, "My boy!" when Mr. Thornton appeared. They all turned to him in fearful expectation.

"My apologies," he stammered. "I meant to be here half an hour ago, but I was detained on business. We will need to hurry."

Frederick stood up straighter, his face set and determined, and he nodded. "I am ready."

"But . . ." Margaret could not stop herself. "Why can you not go through Outwood Station? Surely that would take you to Liverpool faster."

Thornton looked only a little abashed. "I'm afraid I have little time for explanation now, but I did discover that Leonards himself works as a porter at Outwood Station." At this a dreadful gasp exploded from her and he nodded. I thought it best to avoid the Milton stations entirely and ride to Manchester Victoria station in the carriage. We will not lose much time by going this way; Manchester is only an hour by carriage, and we will be in Liverpool before dark."

"And you are to come with me?" Frederick asked.

"Yes. My coachman will wonder why he is taking a lone man in my carriage all the way to Manchester otherwise. As long as I am with you, en route to Liverpool, he will simply assume you are a business acquaintance traveling with me. He has driven me to Manchester before so I may take the train from there, so the journey will be nothing to him, even if I have a traveling companion."

Margaret had more questions for him, but he forestalled them by saying, "We must not lose any time, however. It will take at least an hour to reach Manchester, and I would like us to be in Liverpool before it is too late tonight."

He spoke calmly and quietly, but there was no mistaking his urgency, so Frederick stepped forward to follow him down the stairs, and Margaret and Mr. Hale were close behind. Dixon had retrieved Frederick's bag while Mr. Thornton conferred with them upstairs, and she handed the bag to Frederick, saying only, "God bless you, Master Frederick!"

"Thank you, Dixon," he replied with a brave smile. "I don't need to ask you to take care of my dear father and sister. I know you will do so."

Mr. Thornton hung back next to the door, but his eyes strayed to Margaret as her brother said his farewells once more. There was energy pulsing through her at this parting, but he could see that any moment, she would collapse from exhaustion. If only he could stay and care for her now instead of taking this journey. But he would return on the morrow and be able to offer her better comfort than she could reasonably feel at present. That is, if all went smoothly, the assurance of her brother's safe departure would be comfort to her. He was not permitted to do more than that.

His goodbyes said, Frederick turned back to Mr. Thornton, saying, "I am ready now." With a nod, Mr. Thornton reached for the door handle, only to be stopped by Mr. Hale gripping his arm.

"Take care of my boy, John," he implored. "Keep him safe."

He took his friend's hand in reply, shaking it fervently. He allowed himself one more glance to Margaret, who said nothing but urged the same request as her father with her eyes. With a fierce promise to himself that he would not fail her, he opened the door and ushered her brother into the carriage.

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay, this was interesting to write. I don't do much in the way of research for my stories (besides frequent delving into the source material), and what little I do barely scratches the surface, but once I made the decision to go through Liverpool, I figured I should look up something about the railways. Through this I discovered information about the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, that opened in 1830 and was the first railway of its kind to use exclusively steam power for its trains (no horse-drawn cars at any point on the 35-mile track)! By the time _North and South_ was written, of course, it was not so singular and there were definite changes from when it first opened, but it just seemed like kismet, so I felt like I had to mention the Manchester Victoria station, which was included as an extension of the railway in 1844, as a shout-out. When this railway first opened, trains traveled at only 17 miles per hour (officially, that is). Of course, by the time our story takes place, they would have moved much faster thanks to the installation of more sturdy rails and better engineering. But what with multiple stops along the way, it could still take a couple hours (or more) to go between the two cities. (If I were more serious about research, I would have found myself a Bradshaw's guide to get actual timetables, but I'm too lazy for that kind of in-depth discovery.) Milton generally known for being a fictional stand-in for Manchester, I did wonder if it was worth making it a separate city entirely, but I wanted to include an actual station name, so I settled for making them near-neighbors of each other. Anyway, just don't expect too much in the way of specifics of their travel time; I'm going to be deliberately vague.

And now I'm going to respond to a couple of reviews, which is not something I normally do in these author's notes, but I felt like I should probably address this in case anybody else was concerned about Frederick's behavior in the last chapter. I'm sorry for worrying you; I didn't mean to make it sound like he was going to hit Margaret! I never would have allowed that. Note that I wrote that he "looked _ready_ to pounce", not that he was actually going to. But as another review said, I am making him a bit of a hothead, and I wanted to show him being angry. But he never would have actually used violence against his sister, and not just because Mr. Thornton was standing right there. More like a "getting in your face because this is a really dangerous situation" kind of deal. I understand why you'd question the direction I took with his reaction, but I'm sorry for making you believe he'd do something worse to Margaret beyond getting mad and telling her so in very forceful language. I hope there is no more reason to worry. Thank you for your reviews!


	6. Odd Companions

Frederick Hale was by no means a chatty fellow, but he had always been able to converse with others easily. Not so with Mr. Thornton. As the carriage made its way into the country, not one word was exchanged between the two men. He supposed it possible that the situation made any speech difficult, but he also thought at least a little conversation would be a relief. Mr. Thornton gave the appearance of a man who spoke with economy, and he did not care to waste his time. But this impression did nothing to relieve Frederick's discomfort, although he decided he had better follow Mr. Thornton's lead.

After some time, however, the rumbling of the carriage ceased to be enough for Frederick to listen to, and he finally asked Mr. Thornton one of the questions that had been running through his mind. "How did you find out Leonards worked at the station?"

Mr. Thornton, who had been occupying his time looking out at the road, swiveled his head around quickly, appearing almost surprised at being addressed. He shook his head briefly to collect his thoughts, then replied, "It was surprisingly easy. When I returned to the mill, I stopped at my home to retrieve some correspondence from my study -at least, that was what I told my clerks-, and Betsy, the maid I mentioned, was there dusting. I went in the house on purpose to seek her out, but I did not expect to find her so easily."

"Fortuitous," Frederick mused.

"Indeed," Mr. Thornton acknowledged. "I asked her about her change in status and she was immediately forthcoming. It seemed she was afraid she might lose her place and wanted to assure me that her fiance was an upstanding man who was sure to find a good position once he'd proven himself at the railway."

"Afraid of losing her place?" Frederick asked, ignoring an opportunity to disparage the thought of Leonards proving himself in any position.

"My mother is notorious among those in service," Mr. Thornton replied with an almost-imperceptible roll of his eyes. "She does not approve of married housemaids. Not many women do, but my mother is especially unforgiving on the subject. Betsy wanted to make me her ally, I think, to speak to my mother on her behalf."

"It seems everybody is in want of your assistance today," Frederick said with some irony.

Mr. Thornton made no reply to this remark, but continued with his account. "So it was within ten minutes of returning home I found out that Leonards is, in fact, engaged to one of my maids and where he makes his living. At first I thought it would take a few hours at least to know anything of him, so I am not about to complain. After she told me he worked at the very station you planned to travel from, I knew there would have to be a change in plan. All that remained to me was to work out a possible course and a plausible story for my own quick departure. But even that was not a stretch; I am always corresponding with associates in Liverpool. I have a steady supply of cotton that comes through there. It would mean nothing to anybody for me to travel there on business."

"When did you decide that you were going with me?"

"Before I left your father's home," Mr. Thornton declared to Frederick's surprise. "Once you were convinced it was wiser to travel without consulting a lawyer, and after I made my suggestion of going through Liverpool, I thought it might be easier for you to go with some company. A man traveling alone does not really attract too much unwanted attention, but two men traveling on business together are even less worthy of speculation."

"You will not need to assist me any longer once we are in Liverpool. I am a sailor; I know my way around a dock."

"Of course. But I hope you understand that my purpose in accompanying you is twofold: first, to ensure you travel unsuspected, and second, so that I may be able to give the earliest intelligence to your family of your safe departure."

Frederick had to begrudgingly admit this was a benefit; the faster his family was aware of his safety, the more comforted they would feel. Margaret in particular would fret while waiting for word from him on top of caring for their father. He wondered if Mr. Thornton was spurred on to the actions he had taken by the same thought. It was one thing for the man to make inquiries and give advice from the security of his own home and town, but to go so far to ensure a stranger's protection as to travel with him, it prompted some questioning on Frederick's part in regards to the man's feelings.

There was no question he was a good friend to Mr. Hale. In the short time Frederick had seen them together, it was clear his father respected and even depended on Mr. Thornton. What was unsettled was his relationship to Margaret. She had spoken more warmly of him than even she supposed, but that could be explained by her desire to defend her impulsive choice to Frederick. She would not want to foster distrust in her brother by speaking badly of the man she confided in. There had also been a glance or two shared between them that bespoke a certain kinship, but again it could possibly be only the current circumstances throwing them together in a united cause. Frederick simply could not decide on what terms Mr. Thornton was with Margaret.

He was not going to waste away his time without finding out, though. He had a few hours alone with Mr. Thornton, after all, and he was impertinent enough to satisfy his curiosity, rather than spend all of his time wondering quietly. Still, he would wait to investigate until they were on the train. Of course the carriage driver could not possibly hear them, but a train car gave a better feeling of privacy. Until then, he would have to content himself with studying the serious, intense visage of the enigmatic gentleman.

Within an hour, they removed from the carriage and, after Thornton exchanged a few quiet words with the driver, made their way into the station. Being more than a single platform, Frederick felt a little adrift surrounded by people and multiple thoroughfares. But Mr. Thornton, well-acquainted with the building, knew precisely which way to lead, and soon had procured their passage. His haste in Milton was vindicated, as the train left barely ten minutes after they boarded, though Frederick was glad that they had not needed to wait a long time to be on their way. He also was glad that the train they took was sufficiently unoccupied that they were alone in the car.

As the train pulled out of the station, Frederick noticed Mr. Thornton sigh discreetly and relax his shoulders, again keeping his gaze focused out the window. As upright and sure as he had appeared, it had not occurred to Frederick that his companion was at all nervous or tense. It gave him some satisfaction to see Mr. Thornton betray such human frailty, and it made him bold.

"I have not thanked you, Mr. Thornton," he said, drawing the man's stern eyes to him. "What you are doing for me and my family is no small thing, and I have not shown you much gratitude." Frederick hoped that some kind words would soften him and make him more receptive to impertinent questions.

If gruffness was to be equated with softness, he was successful, for that was the manner Mr. Thornton adopted as he answered. "There is no need for your gratitude, Mr. Hale. I do this gladly in the service of your family. They need a great deal of support at present, and this is simply what I can do. I only hope it is worth the effort."

"Avoiding Leonards at the station in Milton is certainly worth it, I should say. Who knows what might have happened if we had proceeded as originally planned?"

Mr. Thornton acknowledged this with a slight incline of his head. "You have a point there. But I do not require your thanks. You had no say in my being informed of your presence or your predicament, and you were certainly unhappy with your sister's actions. My own actions since can be considered exceptionally high-handed, as well. To have such decisions taken out of your hands in a matter that so directly concerns you must be galling. I would not blame you if you never thanked me."

With Mr. Thornton's reference to Margaret, Frederick cast his mind back to the events of the morning. Specifically he recalled Mr. Thornton standing guard beside Margaret when Frederick had been at his most menacing. Again it could have been a natural response in any man to protect a woman from potential violence. But was there more to Mr. Thornton's taking his place alongside her? It seemed now would be a good time to find out.

"And yet I do thank you, even if it was Margaret who revealed our secret, not me."

Mr. Thornton shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He had managed to keep conversation to a minimum, and he was rather afraid of greater discourse with Frederick Hale. Unlike his father, he had a buoyant energy along with a quick eye that was disconcerting. He did not dare speculate what kind of conversation Frederick had carried on with Margaret this morning, for he had a vague idea that the brother would show more curiosity than the father. And who knew what Margaret may have revealed? He longed to know what she said, but he was wary of showing too much eagerness. He did not want to encourage too much familiarity and give himself away.

So he was unprepared for the brash directness of Frederick's next question. "What exactly is your relationship with her?" The question resounded through him like a thunderclap, and he took his time answering, first hoping to prevaricate and throw Frederick off the scent.

"I do not take your meaning," he stated coolly.

"Of course you do," Frederick replied, "so there is no need for you to avoid answering me. If there were nothing between you, you would not feel the need to pretend you misunderstand me. I think you understand me very well."

He scowled at the young man's insolence; he did not want to admit he was right. He looked away, peering through the window intently.

"You spoke too directly with me this morning for me to think you're the kind of man who would make evasions on an uncomfortable topic. I asked you a question and I do expect to be answered. The mere fact that Margaret confided in you is enough to spark my curiosity. But then the lengths you are going to are increasing it. I wonder at your motives. Did you really expect that I wouldn't wonder about your relationship with her?"

With hooded eyes, Mr. Thornton returned Frederick's stare. He had not expected that her brother would be as oblivious as her father, but he _had_ hoped for it. "Did it occur to you that this is a subject that I do not wish to address? Whatever my relationship with your sister, it is a private matter and I do not care to discuss it."

"Again you prove my point. Because you will not answer me, I feel sure now that something is there. I was perfectly willing to believe there was nothing greater than simple friendship between you, or even less than that since it is clear you are a great friend of my father's. But had that been the case, you would have said so immediately and openly."

Annoyed that Frederick Hale was so persistent and discerning, his scowl deepened and he muttered, "Well, certainly no one could accuse Miss Hale and me of being friends."

"Really?"

Mr. Thornton looked up to see Frederick's eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Do not let the events of today trick you into believing something that is not so. Miss Hale may have come to me, but I am certain that any good she hoped I would do was for your father's sake."

"Did she say that?"

"She would not have had to, although she did appeal to me in the name of my friendship with him."

"And yet she did not consult him about approaching you."

He looked away. That had shocked him so much only a few hours before, but upon reflection he interpreted it as a sign of her desperation.

"No, she did not. But you were all in a dreadful position, and I was possibly the best option of someone to turn to. Again, I would not take my involvement in your affairs as proof that there is anything resembling closeness between me and your sister." He stared pointedly at Frederick, hoping and doubting that would put an end to the interrogation.

His doubt was rewarded when Frederick asked his next question. "But do you wish to be close to her?"

Heaving a sigh of frustration, he ran a hand through his hair. "What is it you wish to hear? Is this preliminary to you warning me away from her? You need not take the trouble; she already has done that most forcefully. I need no further incentives to not pursue her." He knew well what he gave away in his heated response, but Frederick's needling had won out and there was no stopping his temper getting the better of him.

The reply he received was surprisingly gentle if firm. "I only wish to hear truth, Mr. Thornton. I have not seen Margaret since she was a little girl. I realize that means I have little right to pry into her affairs, much less into yours, but you are a man in her life. A man she has placed great trust in, and I am not only curious; I am concerned as any brother would be about any man who potentially had an affection for her."

He scoffed at the word 'affection.' As though such an insignificant word was sufficient to describe the depth of his feelings. "Here is truth, then, Mr. Hale," he stated coldly. "I offered and was refused. That is truth. Beyond that there is nothing."

For a full minute, there was silence. Mr. Thornton had looked away again and refused to be curious about Frederick's reaction. He had seen the initial astonishment at his confession, but knew nothing else as he averted his eyes. Painful as it was to live each day in the knowledge of her rejection, it was humiliating to speak of it to one of her relations. His anguish had not healed in the slightest, and his heart felt ripped apart in the recollection of her coldness.

"You love her still."

He had not anticipated such a simple observation, and against his will he turned back.

"You were refused, but you love her even now," Frederick said, with a thoughtful crinkle to his brow.

He only hesitated a moment before replying. "Yes," he admitted rawly.

"Does she know that?"

He shrugged. "I have not spoken of it since that day. I told her then- I told her that I would love, but she needn't fear my expression of it. And I have not failed in that. Whether she believes I still care is unknown to me. We do not speak. But it is of no matter."

"Why?"

"Because she does not like _me._ She was offended that I dared address her so. And I knew it, even before I spoke the words. I knew she did not care for me. I was a fool," he trailed off dejectedly.

"You seem sure she has not changed her opinion of you."

"If she has, it is still of little consequence," he argued. "She has always thought too ill of me to change her mind so drastically."

Frederick looked skeptical. "You think this even after she came to you this morning?"

He straightened. "Only as your father's friend, as I said. She did not seek me out because her feelings toward me have altered." Why would her brother insist on dredging up painful memories? There was no sense in this conversation, and all he wished to do was end it.

Frederick had no intention of doing so, however. Carefully he said, "I do not pretend to be an expert on the inner workings of Margaret's heart. We have been apart too long for me to know her very well. It is very possible you know her better now than I ever will. But I will always be concerned for her life and her feelings. And I will tell you now, Mr. Thornton, the things she told me today were not spoken in a feeling of dislike."

He shook his head vehemently. As unwelcome as it would be for Frederick to warn him away from Margaret, it was even more ridiculous to think that he was offering assistance.

"I am not in the habit of lying," Frederick replied to the shaking head. "Margaret spoke very well of you, and not merely in the way she would of a man who is only our father's friend. Her opinion of you _has_ altered; she said so herself."

This was too much. He looked away again, not wanting to hear any unfounded encouragement, and yet craving her thoughts.

"I cannot say she cares for you, or ever will," -ah, there was the rub-, "but I would not have you believe that she thinks so badly of you as you seem to think. I think the experiences of today have taught her that."

Returning to his gruffness, he spoke to the window. "I do not wish for her to confuse gratitude for affection. I did not offer my help so that she would feel any obligation to me."

"I never suggested you did. And I do not think Margaret would be foolish enough to make that mistake." He paused a moment, and Mr. Thornton could only hope it meant this particular conversation was close to ending.

"I hope you will consider what I say, though. Margaret did not speak of a man she hated or even disliked. I do not want to encourage false hopes, but I ask that you do not continue in the misapprehension that you are nothing to her. If I, who hardly know her, can see that, I think you should not be blind to it, either."

Mr. Thornton made no reply to this, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the window. This was hint enough for Frederick, who felt his impertinent interest had been amply satisfied for him resume their previous silence.


	7. Wait and Hope

Under any other circumstances, namely the circumstances in which she had been unable to sleep the two nights previous, Margaret was sure that her fears for her brother would keep her up all night. But her body was severely protesting her neglect, and she barely made it through supper when her father, of all people, insisted she retire to her room for the remainder of the evening. Too exhausted to argue about the need to sit up with him, she shuffled up the stairs clumsily. How she managed to change into her nightgown she would not remember in the morning, but miraculously she did before tumbling into the bed and under the bedclothes. It was the work of a moment and she was asleep.

To say that she felt completely refreshed upon waking in the morning would be a stretch, but there was no doubt that her body felt the benefit. At least she was no longer moving so sluggishly or thinking so slowly. That could only be an improvement. But with her restored senses came an acute renewal of her agitation.

There were still some arrangements to be made for her mother's funeral on the morrow and there was no telling what state her father would be in this morning. He had expressed his belief and hope that Mr. Bell would arrive to oversee things, but they had as yet heard nothing from him.

And of course there was the question of Frederick. Little had been said between her and her father after Frederick's hasty departure with Mr. Thornton. Had they made it to Liverpool? Had Frederick found safe passage? When would they hear from him, or at least from Mr. Thornton? For that matter, Mr. Thornton had explained almost nothing of his actions the day before, and she wanted her curiosity on that score satisfied.

She sat with her father for several hours, wanting to make up for leaving him alone the night before. He was gracious in excusing her, stating that even she needed to rest occasionally. Though his words were kind, her guilt was not entirely alleviated. His worries and needs were greater than hers, and she was disappointed in herself for not being stronger.

Her disappointment on her father's behalf increased when a note arrived from Mr. Bell, saying that he would be unable to leave Oxford at present due to illness. A promise was given that he would come as soon as he was well enough to travel, but that was little comfort. She had hoped that Mr. Bell would come for the funeral; indeed, Mr. Hale had been relying on his old friend's company.

But he bore the news with equanimity. Disappointed he may have been, but he was resigned. "I imagine Mr. Thornton will come with me if I ask him."

"I have no doubt he will," Margaret replied, her only reservation being their ignorance of when he would return. He had not said how long he would stay in Liverpool. "But even if he is not back tomorrow, you will not be alone, Father. I will go with you."

"Are you sure?" Mr. Hale asked with some trepidation. "Are you sure you can bear it, Margaret? Only, women generally do not attend. I would not want you to overextend yourself."

"Nonsense, Father. I will be able to manage myself, and were we surrounded by scores of friends, I would still want to go. You cannot imagine that I would wish to remain alone here; that is what I could not bear. You shouldn't fear that I will make a spectacle of myself."

Mr. Hale reached a hand over and gripped hers feelingly. "Oh, no, I would never think that of you, my dear. And if you are determined, I will not deny you your wishes. You are a good girl."

Margaret smiled, then pulled his hand to her lips for a bracing kiss, hoping to hide the watery eye inspired by his words. Her father had been so occupied with looking inward, this was the first instance since her mother's death he had in any way acknowledged her efforts. It meant more to her than he knew.

He looked rather embarrassed at this daughterly exchange, and gave her hand a final squeeze before pulling away. "Well, well, we should not doubt that Mr. Thornton will return by tomorrow. Liverpool is not so far; he should be back today – tonight at the latest. I'm sure we will hear from him by then." His attempt to reassure both himself and her was noble, but there was no missing the hint of anxiety in his voice as he spoke.

"I do wonder -" he said, only to be interrupted by a tap at the door below. All at once he became alert. "Who is it, do you think? Could it be . . .?"

Margaret sprang up from her chair to the window, but her view of the front stoop was too obstructed to see whoever had just knocked. She could already hear Dixon walking downstairs, so it was useless for her to leave the room, as doubtless they would soon discover who the visitor was. Her hands fidgeted and twisted around each other as she waited for the door to open.

The creak of the door, a low murmur, and then strong, decisive footsteps came resounding up the stairs. And there he was, tall, imposing, and serious, but with an almost triumphant look in his eye that spoke of good fortune before he even opened his mouth. She stepped forward in anticipation as her father stood to greet him, and she caught a glimpse of Dixon peeking in from the hall, so she knew that all concerned were ready to hear what Mr. Thornton would say.

"John! We were just speaking of you. It is barely noon; I did not know we would see you so soon!"

Mr. Thornton nodded as he shook Mr. Hale's hand. "We were up quite early, and I came here straight from the train. Miss Hale," he acknowledged her briefly before Mr. Hale claimed his attention.

"And is all well? Did Fred -"

"He got off all right. He found his way on to a packet ship when we arrived in Liverpool last night, and it left almost at first light. He is well on his way."

Margaret felt her whole body sag in relief as she sank into a chair. All her worry and hasty efforts were done with, and now she had the sure knowledge that Frederick was beyond danger now. She could have kissed Mr. Thornton's hand in gratitude as she had done to her father if it wasn't such a scandalous gesture. And if their history wasn't so fraught with awkwardness and pain, she reflected.

"And there were no complications on your way?" Mr. Hale pressed, holding a hand out to a chair in silent entreaty. Mr. Thornton promptly sat.

"None at all. I did not expect there to be. As long as we got away from Milton undetected, Mr. Hale was quite safe as he would be anywhere else in the country."

"And you say he found passage last night?"

"Yes. He stayed on the ship overnight while I put up at an inn, but he came down to see me at the dock before they embarked this morning. He bid me goodbye and asked me to deliver these." He reached a hand into his coat and pulled out two letters, one which he handed to Mr. Hale and the other he held out to Margaret.

She practically leaped out of her seat to take the letter, but she slowed her movements as she came closer to Mr. Thornton. His face was composed as ever as he looked at her, but there was something in his eyes that reminded her of how strange it was to be close to him, to have to reach out and touch his fingers as she retrieved the paper from his hand. Frederick's danger being past, no matter her gratitude, some of their natural coldness was revived and she did not know how to rectify it. They were no longer co-conspirators, and she returned to her chair, wanting to say something to push past what stood between them, but unsure of what she could say, especially in front of her father.

He had not touched her since her arms had been around him the day of the riot, and that memory came bounding into his mind during the instant their hands necessarily came into contact, and he found it exceedingly difficult to focus. But Mr. Hale had set aside his letter, evidently intending to read it later, and was looking to him for more immediate news. He must put aside his chaotic feelings and give the account that they were yet ignorant of.

He recounted the story of Betsy and her ready information, and he gave a little detail of the journey with Frederick, though with some important omissions. The conversation on the train as well as the young man's final words to him that very morning, in particular.

"Is it really so easy for Fred to find a place?" Margaret spoke for the first time since his arrival. "Would not someone suspect a man looking to barter work on a ship for passage?"

Betraying a rueful smile, he said, "Merchant ships are always looking to find sailors, and they rarely ask many questions of their volunteers. Merchant sailors have a less-than-savory reputation as a result, I'm afraid."

"Will he be in danger, then?" she asked in some consternation.

"No," he replied confidently. "They are men who don't always have stellar characters, but they will not pry into each other's affairs needlessly. It is rather taken for granted that they all have something to hide. And it is not out-of-the-ordinary for a man to earn his passage, or at least pay off some of it, by working on a ship. He will be under no suspicion there."

"Oh." Margaret tried to reconcile herself to the idea that Frederick being among such men was a virtue, but it went against the grain. Still, Mr. Thornton did not appear to worry and neither, for that matter, did her father. It seemed she still had much to learn about the ways of the world if even her father was unfazed at the thought of such associates for his son.

"We are very fortunate," Mr. Hale was saying, "that everything was able to go as smoothly as it did. It's no secret I was surprised that Margaret came to you, John, but with the help you have rendered, I think it was for the best that she did. With how little effort you were able to discover the snag in our plans, I would say it was more than fortunate; it must have been providential."

Mr. Hale's innocent observation had a profound effect on Margaret, who tried to hide a deep blush as Mr. Thornton looked her way. Of course she had confessed to him just the day before that he had been an answer to her prayer, but time had not made the memory less embarrassing. Of everything she had told him, she wished that particular part had not escaped her; no matter how truly she believed it, telling him so had felt ridiculous.

For his part, he had all but forgotten that aspect of her many revelations, and only now with Mr. Hale's words did it come back to him. It _was_ curious the coincidences that had taken place to make everything happen with so little difficulty. That his own servant was engaged to the very man who posed a threat; that he was able to speak with her immediately on returning home without even needing to seek her out; that she was willing to share her information freely for her own purposes, that he might not be suspected or wondered at for inquiring. With every step and maneuver of the day before, potential complications could have halted their progress, and yet nothing had hindered them. Perhaps there _was_ something to be said in the name of Providence and the guiding influence of a heavenly hand. It had not passed through his mind at the time, but now he found the idea quite apt. And in a selfish way he rather liked that _he_ was the answer to Margaret's prayer, even if she would not deign to look at him now.

"If it was the hand of Providence," he said to Mr. Hale," then I am honored to have played a part, especially in your service."

"Thank you, John," Mr. Hale replied with emotion. The tension of Frederick's situation was gone now that he had heard Mr. Thornton's report, and all that remained in his mind and heart was a rising remembrance of his greater loss and the need for a sustaining friend.

There was a palpable shift in feeling at this, and Margaret could hear the quiet shuffling of Dixon retreating to her place down the stairs. The business with Fred being now concluded, Mr. Thornton would be called upon to speak exclusively to her father, and her attention turned to the letter he had given her. She turned it over and over in her hands, wondering if it would be at all appropriate to open it now, but also eager to know what her brother wrote. With a discreet glance to the two men, she quietly broke the seal and began to read.

 _My dear Margaret,_

 _What a wrench to be taken away from each other so soon, and I do hope it is not the last we shall ever see of each other. I should probably tell you I am no longer angry at your tyrannical actions; I can see how Mr. Thornton was invaluable to us, and I am willing to say so, even if a little warning would have been appreciated. I will write to Mr. Lennox from Spain, and if you would take the trouble of sending him word, at least to notify him that he will be hearing from me, I would be grateful._

 _Take care of dear old Father, as I know you would. I shall send him a bottle of sherry; I am sorry I cannot do much more for him. Or for you, my little sister. Such is life, I suppose, but I would have gladly remained to console you if I could. Perhaps, though, there are others who can offer better comfort than I can, others who would risk much to assist you._

 _In case you have not_ _deciphered my meaning, I will make it clear; hints are not in my nature, and I am more impudent than polite. I have spent little time in his company (certainly less than a day is little time), and even less time actually becoming acquainted with him, but what I have discovered is significant, and I find I admire the man, unprepossessing as he appears. What a scowl he has! But he is a man of great feeling, despite that beastly grimace, and I think you and he would do very well together, at least as better friends than you are at present. More than that I will not presume to say, but you know now how rashly I can act and think when provoked, and your confiding in him is great provocation for a suspicious brother's mind. It is not idle fancy; both you and he have given me reason to think such things. Bear that in mind, little sister, that not he alone has given me cause to wonder._

 _I hope you will not be angry because of my impertinence, remembering that you have only one brother and he has only your best interests at heart. I will remember you and Father in my prayers, and you will be sure to hear from me once I have landed in more friendly country._

 _Your insolent brother,_

 _Fred_

 _P.S. Please forgive me if I have angered you._

Now she wished whole-heartedly that she had waited until she was alone to read this letter! To be in company while reading such shocking words was bad enough, but to be in the presence of the very man her brother alluded to was even worse. What if he were to look over at her again and see her beet-red expression? She felt the heat rise in her face to such a degree she was not sure the condition would not be permanent. She pressed a cold hand to her cheek in an effort to cool herself, but she was sure it would do no good.

Impertinent and insolent, indeed! His admission of it did not excuse his words. Whatever did Fred mean, implying that she herself had given him reason to wonder at the relationship between her and Mr. Thornton? All she had done was defend the man, hoping to garner her brother's trust. However, she recalled, even she had been surprised at how respectfully she had spoken of him, and it was clear that she noticed more about Mr. Thornton than she had previously supposed. But did that mean that she admired him in the way Frederick suggested?

Frustrated, she stood abruptly. Whatever her feelings and whatever Frederick's insinuations, now was not a fitting time to be occupied in such self-examination. She needed to attend to her father and the arrangements for her mother before she dared give a moment's thought to such trivial things. Her movement had drawn the attention of the company, and she stammered out an apology, unable to meet anyone's eye, before making a hasty exit.

Mr. Hale asked Mr. Thornton to indulge Margaret's moods, given the situation, which he was more than willing to do, but it did not stop him being curious. He had seen her open the note from her brother, but had not watched closely enough to see the effects of what had been written. The way she rushed from the room was questionable, and he couldn't help worrying that Frederick Hale had revealed something of their conversation on the train. If he had, then it was fortunate for him that he was now at sea, Mr. Thornton thought with foreboding. But as bold as the young man had been, surely he wouldn't divulge something so obviously personal and painful, even to Margaret. He had some honor in him; he wouldn't do such a thing without express permission. Would he?

"I'm afraid I must go myself," he said with some regret. "I left in such a hurry yesterday, and I must return to the mill."

"Of course; I understand," Mr. Hale replied sadly. "You have already done so much for us; it would be selfish of me to keep you here any longer. But I do hope you will be coming tomorrow, to the . . ." he trailed off, lacking courage to say the word.

"Yes. I would be glad to send the carriage for you."

"Thank you. I will ask Margaret what she thinks and send you word."

"Miss Hale will be coming?" he asked in mild surprise. But immediately he saw that it was perfectly in keeping with her character to insist on attending. "But of course. I would not expect anything else of her. In any case, please keep me informed of your wishes. I will be there."

With parting thanks, Mr. Hale shook his hand and he left the house. But he looked back in hopes that Margaret had emerged from her room and was perhaps peering out the window at him. Instantly he was angry at himself for such wishful thinking, and reminded himself not to give credence to Frederick Hale's last words to him before returning to the ship that morning.

After handing him the two letters for his family, Frederick had stood there awkwardly, clearly debating within himself. Although Mr. Thornton had nothing to say beyond bidding him a safe journey, he took pity on the young man amidst his irritation that he would not simply come out and say what was on his mind.

"Have it out, man," he exclaimed in exasperation. "You were not shy yesterday, and this is no time for you to delay."

He was given a half-grin in response and Frederick said, "You're not wrong. And it is too late for me to feign an attribute I do not possess. By now you have observed that I am unafraid of being impolite."

With such an opening, Mr. Thornton rolled his eyes. "You want to speak about your sister."

The lopsided grin became a complete smile, full of mischief. "You are perceptive."

"And if I tell you I would rather not hear what you have to say?"

"You are always free to walk away, but you won't stop me from speaking as I see fit. You needn't worry that I will keep you long; I have only one thing to tell you."

"And that is . . .?" he said with resigned annoyance.

"Patience is a virtue."

His temper flared. "Do you really think spouting platitudes is going to help me? There is nothing that will change your sister's mind about me. I have reconciled myself to that fact."

Frederick regarded him steadily. "Nothing," he amended, "except time. She told me of how much her opinion of you has already changed, and that could not have happened in the course of an evening. So I would tell you to give her time. You might be surprised by how friendly time can be."

He breathed out in frustration, pursing his lips and looking away. Did this man know nothing? Did he not know that time could also be cruel and unforgiving? "You know too little about the situation, Mr. Hale."

"Perhaps," Frederick shrugged. "But you were an outside observer of our family's troubles and were perfectly able to comprehend and advise a new course to take, one that has worked quite well. Is it so impossible that I, an outside observer in your situation, could have something valuable to offer?"

Despite himself, he cocked his head in consideration of this thought. There could be something to that. Should he really hold on to such a foolish and unattainable hope? He told himself that Frederick's advice was kindly meant but ultimately meaningless. But it did not leave him be, not after they shook hands in farewell or after his ride back to Milton. And still, the words echoed in his ears, fighting against his better judgment and moving him to look back, clutching to a hope that had once been extinguished.


	8. Day of Sorrow

**A/N:** Okay, let's hope that this chapter actually posts without any errors so you actually get notifications.

* * *

The day of Mrs. Hale's funeral brought on a return of all Mr. Hale's sorrow and abstraction. Margaret did not blame him for this, and she gladly gave him her steady hand as he begged for her prayers. Never a man of great fortitude, he now was constantly on the brink of collapsing as the undertaker's man arranged his crape draperies around him.

He trembled beside her as they took the coach, barely heeding the holy words of comfort that she murmured in his ear. Margaret herself was doubtful that the scriptures and verses he knew so well would do him any good at present, so little did they seem to penetrate his sorrow, but they did their part in fortifying her so she might bear the enveloping sadness.

A crowd had gathered, as was usual, during the service, but Mr. Hale was blind to all, only repeating to himself the familiar words the clergyman spoke. How many times had he performed a similar service, but how little did the words mean to him now. As Margaret stood beside him, taking his frail arm in hers, she allowed herself to look among the crowd for familiar faces. There was faithful Dixon, making no effort to hide her grief. But her audible sobs were only reflective of the great love she bore for her departed mistress, and Margaret did not begrudge her the display. There was Nicholas Higgins along with his daughter Mary, standing still in respect, a great contrast to the crowd of strangers who milled about in more curiosity than mourning.

And there was Mr. Thornton, standing apart from the crowd, his face withdrawn and somber. Her heart softened upon seeing him, and had she thought her father would listen to her, she would have pointed out his friend's presence. Margaret turned forward, idly hoping that Mr. Thornton had not been offended at the refusal of his carriage. He had already done so much in just the past two days that Margaret would have felt guilty accepting another favor, even one freely offered. She did not want him to take yet more trouble than he already had. She tried to convince herself that her decision was not influenced by the mortified feelings produced by Frederick's letter, but in that endeavor she was not entirely successful.

But he was here now, just as she knew he would be, and no matter her confused feelings, she was grateful for his continual devotion to her father. Perhaps it could be argued that he was driven merely by duty, but she could see only kindness in his attendance. And in her deepest heart, she was glad to see him, though it would have been preposterous for her to say so.

Her attention returned to the service and the woman whom they stood to honor. This was her final chance to say goodbye to her mother, and she would not waste it. Her efforts on her father's behalf prevented her from shedding any tears, though she knew that they would come again in the solitude of her room, but with a loving look to the casket, she bid farewell.

"Until we meet again, dearest Mama," she whispered so faintly that she could hardly hear herself.

The service was ended and the crowd now broke up, and she looked behind her to see Nicholas and Mary slowly make their way out, though not without a sympathetic nod to her. Dixon came forward on Margaret's other side, nudging her to move along. But her father, still trembling, was standing fast in place, unable to move away.

"Father," she coaxed gently. "It is time."

Slowly he turned his head to her, his face a blank mask. It seemed to take him a full minute to grasp her meaning.

"Of course," he finally murmured, and clutched her arm more strongly, needing her guidance.

She almost stumbled at his weight, but in a moment another hand had taken firm hold of Mr. Hale's other arm, and he was braced up easily by the strong support. Margaret did not need to look to know who had extended his help, but she looked, anyway, to see Mr. Thornton's solicitous gaze. His expression was sober, but his eyes were soft with compassion.

"I am here, sir," his voice rumbled as he addressed Mr. Hale. He lifted his glance to her. "Will you allow me to help you home?"

Once more they were in league with one another, their unity founded upon their desire for her father's comfort, and she nodded. She was unable to return his small smile, but she hoped her gratitude was clear. His eyes spoke volumes as they assured her of his understanding, and he took the chief responsibility of leading her father along. He was able to do so with such confidence that Margaret's hand was unnecessary, and Mr. Hale soon let go of her, relying solely on his friend. But Margaret did not resent this gesture, and took Dixon's arm through hers.

The house seemed especially empty when they reached it, and the party was hesitant to break the silence. It seemed disrespectful somehow to speak, so it was without words that Mr. Thornton helped Mr. Hale up the stairs and Dixon went her way to the kitchen, presumably to prepare some refreshments. Margaret stood alone in the entry, vacillating between whom to follow, but finally decided to simply go to her room, hoping that eventually she would feel more at ease. All at once she felt desperate for time alone with her grief, and in that moment she realized this might be her only opportunity the rest of the day. She passed the drawing room without looking in, and she hoped fervently that Mr. Thornton intended to stay for some time with her father.

Discarding her hat and gloves, she sat on the bed in complete stillness, her feelings warring within her for dominance. She did not know what to feel; her life was to go on as much as ever it had, and yet she would do so without a presence that had always been there. Her childhood in Helstone had been primarily spent in her mother's company, and despite her youth being chiefly spent in London, she had still been aware of her mother's influence, reaching beyond the miles to be with her. Now it was gone to the far reaches of the universe and she wondered if she would ever feel it again.

This melancholy thought broke the dam of her mourning and she fell against the covers in wracking sobs. She muffled the noise into her pillow, all the while afraid that someone would hear her undignified cries. But beyond this slight fear, she felt nothing more than the natural grief that was finally and freely flooding through her. She had shed many tears the last few days, but nothing in comparison to what issued forth now.

She did not know how long she cried, but once the fierce sting of grief had passed, she sat up wearily, wiping her cheeks and reaching for a handkerchief. After attending to the rest of her face, she examined the handkerchief she had taken. It was the same one that Mr. Thornton had offered her only two mornings before. She had forgotten that she had kept it. She gave a half-hearted laugh at the realization that she had yet another item to return to him, and how to do so without feeling intensely awkward was the question.

Was he still keeping her father company? For her father's sake, she hoped so. He could not be left alone today. Now she had taken the time to relieve her feelings, it was now her duty to set Mr. Thornton at liberty. Putting herself to rights was the matter of a few minutes, and soon enough she felt adequate to seeing others.

She was relieved to hear rumbling voices as she approached the drawing room, to know Mr. Hale was not alone. The two men were in quiet conference with each other when she entered, and she saw Dixon had promptly and efficiently performed her duties, as they both held a cup of tea as they spoke. Mr. Thornton, on seeing her, quickly stood and gave her a slight bow in greeting. Her father remained seated, but reached a hand out to her, which she hurried to take.

"Margaret dear," he said weakly as she crossed the room. She managed a sorrowful smile, hoping that it might give him comfort. But he said nothing more, contenting himself with her assuring grasp.

Mr. Thornton observed this silently, feeling that now Margaret had returned he had better take his leave. It was a private time for the family, and he had no wish to intrude. He studied Margaret's profile carefully as she greeted her father, seeing by the lingering redness of her eyes what had occupied her time. A fleeting wish passed through him that he might have offered himself to her as support, but he stamped it down by telling himself that it was better she had been alone and she would never have welcomed his company. It was surely embarrassing enough for her that she had betrayed a similar display to him just two days ago, and she was not likely to repeat it.

She turned to him, her hand still enfolded in her father's, and softly said, "Thank you for staying today, Mr. Thornton. We are grateful for your friendship."

If only she knew how her gentle and manner affected him! He longed for more intimate expressions and felt selfish for such desires. Were she even receptive to his wishes, this was hardly the time to give way to them. "It is the least I can do, Miss Hale," he succeeded in saying.

"Yes," she replied, still maintaining that subdued tone that provoked his compassion to an almost painful degree. "You have done so much more for us, more than many a friend would do."

She was so unlike her usual proud self, who spoke without fear of being heard, that Mr. Thornton yearned to know what was truly in her heart, to take on some of her sorrow himself. How could he ease her suffering? His desires suppressed his ability to express himself in accordance with the words she spoke. He set his cup down.

"I should go," he said stiffly. "I do not wish to trespass on your time needlessly. And I have other business I must attend to," he added regretfully. This was true, but he would willingly stay if it were at all appropriate.

"Of course," she said, still in that soft voice that pierced his soul.

He placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder. "I will return as soon as I can, in a day or two." Mr. Hale patted his arm gratefully in response.

When he returned his glance to Margaret, she parted her lips in expectation, but she said nothing. What else she anticipated she was not sure, but there was something being left unsaid as he inclined his head in farewell and walked out of the room.

Hr. Hale sagged into his chair at the departure of his friend, saying nothing to Margaret. She in turn had a strange feeling of something lacking, and she could only assume it was from the deficient words she had spoken to Mr. Thornton. Yesterday she had hurried from the drawing room without a word of thanks, and what little she had just said seemed so insufficient. A longing grew up inside of her to express more, to make him understand how much they had needed him, and, throwing all caution to the wind, she dashed from the room to say something, anything more.

Mr. Thornton had just reached the door when she began rushing down the stairs, and there was no missing the sound of her footsteps. He turned back in response even before she called out his name. She stopped in front of him and he could only look at her in confusion. He saw the struggle in her face and wanted desperately to take her hand, to soothe her brow, to do whatever he could to assure her of his help and comfort. But he remained still, earnestly waiting for her to begin.

"I . . ." she stammered, glancing at the floor for inspiration. There was nothing there, however, and she looked up again quickly. "I do not have the words to express all my gratitude to you, Mr. Thornton."

Of course, he thought to himself with a discouraged intake of breath. It was only fitting. He was foolish for thinking she would say anything else. "You needn't trouble yourself, Miss Hale. I have done nothing to require your thanks."

"But you have!" she exclaimed. "You know you have, and I must express my thanks."

He shook his head vigorously, angry at himself and irked by her insistence. He did not want to make her feel obligated to him, and he would stop her if he could.

"You have done so much for us," she continued. "I cannot even begin to say everything you have done, but you have proved yourself the truest friend to my father and . . ." the tears began to prickle behind her eyes again and she forced them back. He was now looking at her as though he saw through her efforts. "There is nothing we can possibly do to repay your kindness."

"I did not do it to be repaid," he uttered with an intense look that he was sure betrayed his deeper feelings, the same ones she had spurned.

Her voice hitched in her throat. How was he, with a single look, able to discompose her so? "I know you did not," she replied in a gentler tone. "That is what makes you such a sincere friend and a good man in the truest sense."

In spite of himself, he kept his eyes focused on her. Her compliments and good opinion might only be temporary and pass away once her gratitude had diminished, but he was too eager for such words to stop her now.

As she met his hungry gaze with an intent one of her own, her breath became more labored and she felt a strange pull toward him. She attempted to speak as she perceived the way his eyes darkened when she unconsciously took another step closer to him. What was he trying to tell her with that captivating stare? She swallowed with difficulty.

"Please," she practically whispered. "Please do not think that I speak only because I am thankful for your assistance. I am, and you know it. But you must also know what you mean to us, what you mean to . . ." and in that moment her eyes widened in shock. Where were her words leading? She broke his hold on her and looked away, hoping to amend her words so they were a little less scandalous. "What you mean as my father's friend, that is," her voice petered out feebly.

He leaned back as her voice changed, confusion and surprise evident in his features. Had she been about to confess something else? he felt the hopeful voice in his mind whisper. It could not be, but perhaps . . . Had she felt the tense pressure and promise he had when their eyes were locked on each other? It was too much to hope for, but maybe he had not misunderstood her. This spark of a hope was sufficient so that he did not become frustrated at the way she abruptly pulled away or demurred.

"Your father means a great deal to me, as well," he said delicately, trying to pull her back into their exchange gently. "I will always be grateful to him for his friendship, and I hope I can continue to prove myself his true friend."

Margaret did not trust herself to look him directly in the eye again and only nodded. Then with a forceful awkwardness, she thrust out the handkerchief she had carried down with her. Instinctively he took it, but with some bewilderment until she explained herself.

"It's yours," she hurriedly admitted with some perturbation. "I never returned it to you. I'm sorry for keeping it; it was simply an accident."

She still would not meet his eye, and he looked at her in amused amazement. Here was yet another side of the woman he loved, this unsure and blundering girl who still occasionally showed just how young she was. How long would it be until he really knew her?

"I am grateful to you for returning it. I'm not sure I would have missed it, but I am glad it was of some use to you." He leaned in toward her, willing her to look up at him again. "I will always wish to be of use to you. I am here to help you, Miss Hale," he said with more sincerity and feeling. "I trust you know that."

Her eyes were drawn to him at his assertion, shy and dazed all at once. She looked trapped in some curious spell, and falling into the same enchantment he took her hand in his. Led by some impulse he knew not what, he lifted her hand boldly to his mouth, his heart pounding ferociously within him. All the while his eyes never left hers and before he could stop himself, he pressed his lips against her fingers.

It was simply instinct that made her gasp and pull her tingling hand away, but she did not reprimand him for the liberty he had taken. She should have, especially since he gave no hint of an apology as he opened the door and walked out. All she felt capable of doing was standing in stunned silence, her eyes wide, long after the door had closed behind him.


	9. When It Rains

True to his word, Mr. Thornton did return. Though Margaret's feelings were in a riotous state, continually evolving from day to day, she knew unequivocally that she was grateful for his constancy. His conversation was always directed to Mr. Hale, and so there was no mention or hint of his bold and perplexing gesture. She reflected that this was probably for the better, for she needed time to sort out its effect on her. And it was possible that he would never say anything about it even if they were alone again.

It had only been a few days since her mother's funeral, but she thought the time would have been ample for her to be sure of anything regarding Mr. Thornton. Her brother's letter was the catalyst for her realization that she might feel something more for him, and her thoughts wrestled in every spare moment she had. She could feel her former opinion putting up an intense battle, but it was giving way to impressions that she had only just discovered. To have to give up all her initial prejudice was difficult, for no one ever enjoys admitting they are completely mistaken, but it seemed that it was already being done away with by the time she revealed her brother to Mr. Thornton. Now she needed to adjust to the idea that she did think well of him, and it was, to put it lightly, baffling in contrast to what she had believed for so long.

But what of any tender feelings that Frederick implied she had? This seemed even more impossible, but she had to admit her actions upheld such a supposition. Mr. Thornton's earnestness certainly had an overpowering effect on her, rendering her speechless and absorbed by a feeling she had yet to identify. His kiss on her hand, though fleeting in the moment, had left an indelible impact on her, and she had been convinced, the heat rising in her face, when she prepared for bed that evening that she still felt his lips on her fingers.

Margaret concluded by now that she had spent too much time being deliberately ignorant of affairs of the heart. If she had given more thought to romantic love and affection, perhaps she would have been more perceptive of Henry's interest in her so long ago and been able to warn him off before he overstepped himself. Although she _was_ adamant that nothing of Mr. Thornton's behavior prior to his proposal would have given her any idea of his feelings, even if she were as infatuated with love as Edith. But that did not comfort her at present; she did not like to think of herself wanting in any necessary knowledge.

Perhaps she had done herself a disservice by thinking herself so far above the juvenile and trivial way other young ladies viewed the opposite sex. While her acquaintances in London would titter and gossip about their handsome suitors and potential lovers, she would sit quietly and serenely by, not caring to participate in such behavior. Though she did not disdain the idea of marriage or love, the way others went about the business was off-putting and she distanced herself from it. She was willing to acknowledge a handsome man as such, but she did not fall into raptures over him. She enjoyed men's company as much as she was thrust into it, but she never read more into their conversation than the words actually said.

So if there was some attraction in her to Mr. Thornton, she had not learned enough of such things to recognize it. Perhaps her reactions to him were, indeed, evidence of deeper feelings. Although she did wish she could feel more calm around him, for if this was affection it was most disconcerting to such a novice as her. She could no longer discount the possibility, however.

So on the two occasions he had visited her father since the funeral, she exerted herself in observing him. She thought to be more certain of her feelings by studying him. She learned very quickly that first night that paying such close attention to him was detrimental to the state of her fingers, for she disguised her frequent glances behind her needlework. She lost count of how many times she absently stabbed her fingers, and that she had to resort to her plaster and draw their attention to it was a little humiliating. The next time he came, she settled herself with a book, and her watchfulness was far less painful.

She had already known of his respect for her father, and she had recently become aware of his capacity for gentleness, but now she saw with what delicacy he administered it. Instead of being patronizing, he was understanding; instead of allowing her father to remain low, he sought to build him up. She was not only grateful for his efforts, she realized she admired this ability. Her father seemed to resent her efforts to lift his spirits, but he responded to Mr. Thornton's words easily and gladly.

His intelligence had never been a secret, but now she noticed how he applied his wit to draw forth smiles from Mr. Hale. And herself, if she ever forgot she was studying him and simply enjoyed the society he provided. At times she thought she was learning very little that she had not already known, but she could now see and appreciate how general traits were personalized in his manner and character.

One thing she did observe that she had not previously recognized was with how much care he chose his words. He did not always respond to a comment or question quickly, taking his time to consider and ponder. It was clearly important to him to express himself and his opinions as correctly as possible to prevent misunderstanding. She realized that this must extend to every aspect of his life. With all the decisions he must make every day, he had to judge every side and possibility stemming from those decisions. His judgment affected so many, and he took that responsibility very seriously. What a heavy weight he had to bear; no wonder his face was so often severe.

In embarrassment she wondered what turmoil she must have introduced into his life, for everything he had done relating to her seemed to be prompted purely by instinct. She had always challenged him, never accepting of his explanations or experience. She had sent him out to confront an angry mob, ignoring all the reasons he had to wait for the proper authorities. And he had done it! With little thought, he had done it. She had laid out her brother's danger in front of him, and he in turn had thrown caution to the wind to follow her before he even knew if he could present a rational solution or effective help. And certainly it was not rational thinking that drove him to propose to her. Unmistakably, love had been his motivation there -though she had been slow to see his sincerity-, even as his reason informed him she would reject him. What else of his character had he overthrown simply because she had entered his existence? For him to willingly go against all the practices that had served him well in his life, the love he had expressed to her, though not wise, must have been deeper and greater than she had known.

Did he still harbor those feelings? Frederick thought so, and he was barely acquainted with him. Mr. Thornton's recent actions could be evidence of continued affection, especially the token he had bestowed on her fingers. But as she watched him speak with her father, his manner to her gave no indication that he even remembered the forward display. Of course he would not be able to make reference to that personal act in front of Mr. Hale, but she could read nothing in his eyes when he looked her way.

Again she reminded herself of the lack of favor he had shown her before shocking her with his declaration, but now that she was watching for any hint of his regard, she thought that surely she would see something if there _was_ anything to see. Perhaps he had been able to conquer those feelings, and his unexpected kiss had been nothing more than an ill-judged attempt at comfort. She tried to ignore the strange feeling of emptiness produced by this thought. She told herself that she was trying to name her own feelings, not ascertain his.

She also told herself to focus merely on his character as she observed him. But this was a foolhardy resolution that quickly crumbled as she looked closer at his strong features. When they had first met, she had been hardly complimentary of Mr. Thornton's face. Eventually she had granted that he did present an impressive figure, but she had equated impressive with imposing without allowing for anything else. Now she saw there were many allowances to be made.

It was not often present, but he had a smile that was warm and inviting, even infectious, and whenever she saw it, she wished it would linger. She wondered how she could provoke it into appearing. He had a way of holding himself, whether seated or standing, that showed confidence and strength, without undue arrogance marring the good effect. And then there were his eyes, a steel-blue that seemed at odds with the dreariness of the world surrounding him. But it was not merely their color that struck her; it was the intense, piercing way they broke through her outer shell to see into her soul. Sometimes they seemed to burn with a searing fire, passionate and dangerous. It was both exhilarating and frightening to try and withstand his gaze when his eyes were consumed with heat that threatened to scorch her.

The second night he had come, after his departure and her retiring to bed, she laughed mockingly at herself. If she continued along this line of thought, it was only a matter of time before she talked herself into being in love with him. Naturally this was ridiculous, for he did nothing to encourage such feelings, and how could she be in love with a man she barely spoke to? Of course, somehow he had done just such a thing barely speaking to her, but still she refused the idea. No amount of introspection would convince her that there was any sense in such a reversal. She could not stop thinking of him, though, and the last thought she remembered before drifting off was a recollection of his eyes on her.

* * *

Hoping to prevail upon her father's kind nature and encourage him to extend himself, Margaret was sure to bring his attention to Nicholas and Mary's presence at Mrs. Hale's funeral. In doing so, she thought to suggest that they pay them a visit in return. But before she could bring up the idea herself, to her relieved delight, Mr. Hale voiced a desire to see them and proposed they go the very next day.

"It was very kind of him to come to the funeral, after all. There is more to the man than we knew, as I think we keep discovering."

Margaret thought to herself quietly that such an observation could easily apply to all the acquaintances they had made in Milton, one in particular, but she did not voice this thought aloud.

She had little expectation of how her father would act when they arrived at the Higginses's home the next day, but she was still surprised at the way Nicholas was able to distract him from his grief by his own rough troubles. Perhaps it was the lingering habits of his former life, but Mr. Hale was attentive and compassionate as he inquired into the state of affairs in Nicholas's family.

Nicholas grunted in response. "You may well ask, but it won't surprise you, sir, to know I'm out of work."

"That is where you are wrong, Nicholas," Mr. Hale protested. "It does surprise me; you are a good worker and are not the kind of man to be content in idleness."

Margaret spoke up. "Is it because of the strike that you are without work?"

He rolled his eyes. "The strike's well over. I'm out of work because I'm not fool enough to ask for it when I know the words I'll get."

"And what would those words be?" she asked with some trepidation.

"'You chose your lot and I choose mine,'" he parroted a feigned voice with a disgusted grimace. "'And now you've shown your colors, I'll show mine. No work for such as you. Go off and be da- cursed with you.'" he corrected himself with a glance to Mr. Hale. "Some might honey up their words a bit, but they all mean the same. I'd never be fool enough to ask them."

"Not even your old master would take you back on?" Mr. Hale asked.

The old cloud of anger was descending on Nicholas's face as he answered. "There's a laugh. I don't reckon he would, and besides, Hamper's got a new rule for them he takes on. How would you take it, master, if those who paid you told you how to spend your money, to say who you could help with your freely-earned wages and who you couldn't?"

"I certainly would not submit to such tyranny."

To this Nicolas threw up his hands in agreement. "There you are. And then there's Hamper making his hands swear a pledge they'll not give to the Union. I'm a Union man and I'll not make myself such a hypocrite and liar by swearing such a thing, and what's more, they know it."

"Are all the mills operating under this new rule?" Margaret asked.

With a shrug, Nicholas replied, "I cannot say. It is at Hampers, but he'll find it won't stick. Tyrants make liars, and liars don't work. See what that'll do for his new regulations," he spat out bitterly.

Margaret bit the inside of her lip. This was not the first time she and her father had spoken with Nicholas about the tyranny of authority. But at the time, she had spoken of the tyranny of the Union rather than the masters. She was hesitant to remind Nicholas of it, gloomy as he was, but she found she would not resist the urge.

"Do you remember Boucher saying the Union was a tyrant?"

He looked for a moment as though he had swallowed something foul, and she could easily imagine his revulsion at her mentioning Boucher's name. "Sometimes a Union needs to force a man to see or do what's good for him. It may be hard, but facing truth most often is. It's a dreary life for a man not in the Union. But Boucher wouldn't see what was good for him; he was too much a fool and weak."

"So he did the Union harm?"

"We had public opinion on our side, until he started rioting and breaking the law. It were all over then."

"Then surely it would have been better to leave him alone, to not force him into the Union. You did so, and it was a bad business on both sides. He hurt the Union, and the Union drove him mad."

"Margaret," her father warned, but she did not turn to face him; nor did Nicholas.

"No, she speaks her mind," he said, riding over Mr. Hale's warning. "I'd rather that than sweet words from a liar. You don't understand, Miss. The Union is a great power; it is our only power. It can do good for all who are not too weak to see it. Boucher just wouldn't see it or understand."

There was a brief quiet as Nicholas's voice lowered. "But I cannot think of Boucher without getting angry, for all the mischief he's still bringing on. It weren't enough for him to go rioting and breaking the law. But now, after he's finally come out of hiding, he goes slinking off to Hamper's like a traitor, begging for work, even knowing the new rules. For Hamper's part, he didn't take Boucher, just drove him away, though folks say he cried like a baby." Though his voice was quiet, there was a grim sense of satisfaction seeping through Nicholas's eyes at this outcome.

Margaret was shocked at Nicholas's callous attitude, no matter the trouble Boucher had caused. "This is too cruel!" she exclaimed. "Is there no mercy in your heart for the poor man and what your Union has made of him? I thought you better than this, Nicholas. Do you not care for what becomes of him and his family?"

Nicholas looked a little abashed at her rebuke, but he remained defiantly silent. Perhaps she would have continued but for her father's hand reaching out to touch her arm, halting any further remonstration from her. Now she heeded his warning, a little embarrassed at her outburst, though she did not regret her words. What made these Northern men so hard?

But it was only a moment later that she realized her father's motion was not only an attempt to restrain her, but a request for silence, as there was some commotion outside the house that was slowly growing louder. In silent unanimity, they all rose and went to the window to see a small crowd gathering in the street, making a circle around a group of men, who carried what seemed to be a pile of rags on a plank of wood.

Higgins was the first to recognize what they carried, and hurried out the door in mute horror. The Hales were not far behind. Mr. Hale was so aghast at the realization that it was not merely a pile of rags but a dead human creature, he did not think to shield Margaret from the sight. Even if he had, he could not have stopped her, for she was gripped with a sudden and fearful suspicion of the corpse's identity, and she must know for certain.

Murmurs and whispers surrounded them as they came closer.

"Drowned in the brook . . ."

"Not enough water to -!"

"Determined to do it . . ."

"Set his face down in the water . . ."

"It cannot be him!" This voice belonged to Nicholas. "He wouldn't have had the nerve to kill himself."

It was with growing dread that Margaret approached the body, which had been lowered to the ground to reveal to all who it was. And there she saw him, her fears confirmed. Despite the distorted features, the stained and swollen face, she recognized him. It was poor John Boucher.


	10. Humility

In the immediate aftermath of Boucher's death, duty and action had overtaken feeling for a time. Called on to inform the dead man's wife of his passing, Nicholas had retreated and her father demurred, so Margaret was compelled to take on the task. Accompanied by a neighbor woman, the difficult deed was done, and there was little to do as Mrs. Boucher prostrated herself over her husband's body, her grieving words incoherent through her wailing. Margaret felt awkward being a witness to the spectacle, and soon her father drew her away.

Habit took them back to Nicholas's door, but he had bolted it against them and bid them be off when they called to him. There was nothing else to be done, and in silence they went on their way home.

Once more Margaret sought the solitude of her room, allowing her feelings to reveal themselves fully. Little acquainted as she was with the Bouchers, her sorrow did not move her to tears, but she was overwhelmed by pity and sadness. Her initial disgust at the weak man's cowardice was softened by the knowledge of how much he had suffered. What drove a man to believe that nothing else could be done, that all concerned in his life would be better off without him? Even in her lowest moments, she could not comprehend such despair.

Unbidden, Mr. Thornton appeared in her mind. His life had been directly affected by his own father's suicide. What had his feelings been in that time? When he had recounted the circumstances of his father's death, he spoke of what had been done, but nothing of what he felt. Did he understand the depths such men fell into? Was it possible that he could be tempted in such a way? Margaret clutched at her chest at such a morbid thought; she did not want to contemplate the idea. It gave her an unwelcome pain that constricted her breath.

No, she must not speculate on painful possibilities, but focus her mind on what actually was and what service she could offer. It was with this resolution that she called upon the widow Boucher again the next day. There she and her father learned that Nicholas had called, as well, mentioning some business that would take him away the rest of the day. Neither of them had any idea of what that business could be.

As for Margaret's purpose in coming to condole with Mrs. Boucher, she was dismayed to see the woman's behavior. Justified as she was in thinking herself ill-used, it was disheartening to realize how little she regarded her children's needs. Devoted as she must be to them, now she refused to acknowledge _their_ loss, only selfishly seeing that they were inconvenient in her new situation. Every hardship was an insurmountable obstacle, and every person, even her miserable and departed husband, an enemy.

Margaret could not bear such complaining for long, and tried to do her best at comforting the children. They, at least, were not so querulous in their grief, simply and truly remembering the kindnesses their father had bestowed on them in his beleaguered life. Still, she found it difficult to recover as she walked her father home, attempting to cheer and encourage him for his efforts on the family's behalf. Was there nothing but hardship and suffering in this mortal world after all?

That evening, Mr. Hale seemed restless. Doubtless the events of the last day had driven his thoughts more closely on his own loss, so recent as it still was, and it was clear he was in need of some diversion. Once or twice he wondered aloud if Mr. Thornton would pay them a visit and Margaret, her own desires aside, hoped that the gentleman would appear, if only for Mr. Hale's benefit.

But when the door rang soon after, it was not Mr. Thornton who stepped up the stairs, but Dixon. And judging by the expression on her face, their visitor was deemed unwelcome. Margaret was pleasantly surprised, however, at Dixon's words.

"It's that Higgins, sir. He wants to see you, or Miss Hale. He's in a strange way."

"Well, certainly show him up, then," Mr. Hale replied, sitting up a little straighter. "He can see us both."

Dixon balked. "If you saw the state of his shoes, you'd say the kitchen was a fitter place!"

Margaret bit her lips back to stifle a laugh; to see Dixon's indignation on their carpet's behalf was a welcome return to form, and it gave her some relieved entertainment to know some things would never change. Dixon's admonition did not change her desire to see Nicholas, however, for she was eager to know how he bore up in the circumstances.

"I suppose he can wipe them," was Mr. Hale's reply, and without another word, Dixon huffed away, to their shared amusement. "Perhaps we will discover what business Nicholas had today," he mused to Margaret. "I must admit to some curiosity there."

Margaret was no less curious herself, and soon enough Nicholas appeared. His feet, it must be stated, were clad only in stockings, for Dixon's formidable look was intimidating enough to prompt him to remove the offending shoes.

He swiftly begged their pardon for his appearance, but then seemed to be constrained by some shyness, which Margaret attributed to his obvious fatigue. She excused herself to hasten tea along, hoping to fortify Nicholas and overcome his hesitance.

Upon her return to the drawing room, Nicholas was speaking to her father easily, although his voice was still quiet and subdued. " . . . and I feel it my lot to help those children as best I can, if you'd help me."

"Gladly," Mr. Hale replied, "but what can I possibly do?"

Nicholas paused, casting a glance Margaret's way. "Well, Miss there has talked grand of the South and the ways down there. I don't know how far it is, but if I could get down there where food is cheap, wages are good, and people are friendly like; may be you could help me get work. I've got a deal of strength in me yet."

"What kind of work?"

"I reckon I could spade a bit."

Margaret interjected here. For Nicholas to take such a drastic step, it was unthinkable. "You must not go to the South. You could not stand it. It is so different from what you are accustomed to."

"I'm not so particular as all that," he said, a little offended. Did Miss Hale really think he was so fussy?

"But I must tell you, I owe it to you, since it is my way of talking that has set you off, to make it clear. You would not be able to bear the dullness of life; it would eat away at you like rust. Those who are born and bred there are used to stagnation, but you are not. It would drive you mad, and what good would you be to the children then? Think no more of it, Nicholas, I beg of you."

His face was clouded, troubled thoughts marring his brow, but she was relieved to see he considered her words seriously. He sighed and said gruffly, "So it is that north and south has got their own troubles, and it may be of no more use to leave as to keep a civil tongue in my head and ask for work here."

Was that what his business had been, asking for work at the very mills he had spoken against? Margaret realized. Setting aside all his pride and principles for the sake of Boucher's children? Margaret's heart filled with compassion as she considered Nicholas's actions, though her opinion did not change. He certainly could not reconcile himself to the slow and steady sameness of the South. His northern vitality and drive was too ingrained in him, like so many of his stock. Like one other that now sprang to her mind.

"Nicholas," she ventured gently after tea had been served. "Have you been to Marlborough Mills for work?"

"Thornton's?" he asked with a mirthless chuckle. "Aye, I've been there."

"What did he say?"

"A chap such as me wouldn't see the master. The overlooker bid me go off and be . . . told me to go, sharp-ish."

Mr. Hale saw his daughter's thoughts and said, "I wish you had seen Mr. Thornton. He would not have spoken to you so."

"It does not matter to me the language; they wouldn't take me there, nor anywhere else."

"But would you try again?" Margaret pleaded. "And see Mr. Thornton himself. He would be fair-minded to you, I'm sure, if you could speak to him. It's a good deal to ask, I know, but I would be so glad if you did."

"It would tax my pride," he muttered, but the softness in Margaret's eyes was a great influence and he felt himself yield. "But you've got no common ways about you, Miss, so I'll go." A smile lit the corners of her eyes, and he hurried on. "Don't think he'll do it. He'd as like be burned at the stake before giving in. But I'll do it for your sake."

The small smile now reached her lips. "Thank you, Nicholas. It means all the more, knowing what a cost it is to you."

He nodded, not meeting her eye. He had agreed to her request, and that was all he felt equal to now.

He set aside his cup and stood, the Hales following suit. "Don't you hope, Miss. There'll be more chance getting milk out of a flint. I wish you good night, and many thanks."

"You'll find your shoes by the fire," she said softly, stopping him briefly, but with another nod to Margaret and Mr. Hale, he was gone.

"He's a proud man," Mr. Hale observed with a sigh, seating himself again. "But there is something to be admired in these Milton men, for all their proud ways. It is amusing to see how he respects Mr. Thornton for the ways they are alike; both can be so obstinate where they think they are right. I think you were wise to suggest Marlborough Mills, Margaret."

"Do you?" Margaret said. "I hope I have not done wrong. If they could speak together – if Nicholas could forget Mr. Thornton is a master, and if Mr. Thornton could listen with his heart, I think -"

"Well, my dear, you cannot expect Mr. Thornton to do the same for everyone as he did for us," Mr. Hale interrupted. "Even he has his limits. But I am glad to see the experience with Frederick has you doing Mr. Thornton justice at last."

Margaret fought back a blush. "It was not only his help with Fred, Father. I can admit that I was wrong in judging him as I did when we first came here. But you are not wrong in thinking that I hope Nicholas can appeal to the same place in his heart that allowed him to help us."

She did not trust herself to say any more, afraid that she would awaken suspicion in her father by speaking too openly of his friend. Until she knew for certain her feelings, she did not dare letting him know of what could be.

* * *

It was not a satisfactory morning for John Thornton as he sat toiling away in his office. Days, even weeks, had passed and he was no closer to understanding the full extent of the damage the strike had done him. Much of his capital was tied up in the new machinery, purchased because they had been doing well, and the cotton he had bought in bulk for large orders. But they were still behindhand, thanks to the strike and the incompetence of the Irish workers who had remained in Milton. Even with the return of more experienced hands, the time needed to train the Irish was more than inconvenient, when the work needed to be done quickly.

Such thoughts and worries plagued him even during his leisure hours, which were few. This was a greater annoyance to him now than it otherwise would have been, for he had much rather dwell on thoughts more pleasing, more beautiful, and more hopeful. He had little enough time to think of her, and he craved more of it, to perhaps sort out her perplexing behavior.

At first he had been ashamed of himself, giving way to an improper desire without thought. He should have exercised more control; kissing her hand had been more than foolish, especially at such a time for her. But he would not be afraid, even if he berated himself inwardly; he would still do his duty by his friend and not abandon them. He was sure, though, that she would be so affronted by his boldness that he would see nothing of her when he came.

Surprise was not adequate to describe his feelings when she did _not_ act in the manner he predicted. She did not make herself scarce, and there was no sign from her that his company was intolerable. Perhaps she was magnanimous enough to forgive and excuse his behavior in light of his service to her family. Whatever the reason, he was glad he had not driven her away, for what hope could he possibly justify holding on to if she would not see him?

She said very little in the visits he made, but she did seem distracted. She had even injured herself with her needle, and he had been relieved to see her settle with a book the next time he came. He told himself that it was merely his imagination that she looked at him a great deal, but he did not convince himself entirely that this was the case. But her expression, whether or not her frequent glances were real or imagined, was inscrutable, and he could not tell if she looked at him with disapproval or favor.

If he had more time to devote his mind to such things, perhaps he would be able to decipher her thoughts and feelings, but it was not to be. Instead, he was frustrated and angry, and this morning had been no different as he dealt with correspondence and sought out solutions.

So it was that he was not in a friendly state of mind when Higgins presented himself. Nicholas had already been rebuffed by Mr. Thornton as he left the mill to attend to some business, but he remained by the gate until the master's return. To catch him in the street was his only chance to speak to the master, and he would stay and see it through.

At last Mr. Thornton returned and exclaimed, "What, you're here still!"

"Yes, sir," he replied quietly. "I want to speak with you."

"Then you'd best come in," Thornton said shortly, opening the door and nodding his head to the rough man to follow him.

There was usually only one reason that a man such as this wanted to speak to him, but he was not of a mind to turn him away yet, if he proved to be a man of experience. But his overlooker stopped him for a moment in the yard and whispered discreetly, "I hope you know, sir, that that man is Higgins, one of the leaders of the Union."

This new knowledge gave him pause. Certainly he knew the name; the man had a reputation as a rabble-rouser. What could he want here? Not work, surely. He wouldn't have the pluck to ask for such a thing, nor would he lower himself to do so. But the man who followed him, though it was clear he was not a man to be easily cowed, did not seem to possess such a turbulent spirit as he was reported to have. His request to speak to him had seemed positively docile. What did this mean?

A perturbed curiosity allowed Mr. Thornton to continue on his way, saying nothing to Higgins until they reached the counting-house of the mill.

"Well, sir, what do you want of me?" he asked after seating himself. Let the man stand, hat in hand like any meek supplicant.

"My name is Higgins -" he began, but here Thornton interrupted him.

"I know who you are. What do you want?"

"I want work."

"Work!" In that short time, he had convinced himself this was not the man's purpose, so he was truly taken aback. "You don't want impudence, that's very clear."

"Hamper will speak to my being a good hand."

With a cocked lip, he replied, "I'm not sure you want to send me to Hamper for a character reference. I might hear more than you like."

"I'd take the risk. They wouldn't say anything more than I did my best, even to my wrong."

"Then you'd better go and try them. I've had to turn away a hundred of my best hands for following you and your Union, and you now want me to take you on? Might as well put a firebrand in the cotton-waste."

Higgins turned away at first; there was only so much opposition he would stand, but the recollection of Boucher's children turned him back. "I promise you, I'd not speak a word against you, if you did right by us. And I'd come speak to you in private first if I thought you were doing wrong. I'm an honest man and steady. I work hard."

Thornton raised an eyebrow at this. He had thought his cold reception would have driven the man off. "How do I know you're not just stirring up trouble, saving against another strike?"

"If only I could, I'd be glad of it. But I need work for the family of a man driven mad by those knobsticks of yours until he destroyed himself, put out of work by them Irish who don't know weft from warp."

Thornton's eyes narrowed. There was no doubt that Higgins placed some blame on his shoulders for this madman's death. He should have expected it; he was used to wild accusations that he drove his workers to their death.

"You'd better turn to something else. If I were to believe your story, and I'm not inclined to, I'd tell you to leave Milton and find work somewhere else."

"If it were warmer, I'd take to Paddy's work and be off, but come winter those children would starve!" Higgins protested. "I'd take any wage for the sake of those children, if you knew of any place -"

"You'd take wages less than others?" Thornton broke in with an accusing glare. "You'd turn knobstick? Think of what your Union would do to any man who did the same; they'd be down upon him, you along with them. I'll not give you work, not for one who'd do that to another man, and not for your mock story. There's your answer."

He was again surprised to see a grim smile appear on the man's face. "I wouldn't have troubled you, but I were bid to come. By a woman, who thought you had a soft place in your heart. She was mistaken. But I'm not the first to be misled by a woman."

"Tell her to mind her own business the next time and spare us all the trouble," Thornton said flatly. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned, and he wished to be rid of the man.

"I'm obliged to you for your kindness, master, and for your civil way of saying goodbye," Higgins said with a sarcastic smile and nod of his head. He turned and made his way out, knowing Thornton would not reply.

For a moment, Mr. Thornton drummed his fingers on the desk, troubled by the man's farewell. Curious to see how Higgins took it, he stood to observe him cross the yard and was vexed by the heaviness of the man's step, as though he bore a substantial burden. His brow furrowed as a flicker of doubt overshadowed his response to the man's request.

He crossed to the porter's lodge and without preamble inquired, "How long has that man Higgins been waiting to speak with me?"

"He was outside the gate before eight, sir, and been there ever since. He was also here yesterday, but he talked with Williams then."

It was just one now, Mr. Thornton thought to himself. It was a long time to wait for any man. A distracted and troubled scowl persisted in his features, as he wrestled with his initial opinion of Higgins and a grudging respect for him and his determination.

* * *

 **A/N:** I almost feel like I should apologize for the lack of notifications on chapters 7 and 8, but it seems to me it was an issue with fanfiction itself, because I saw that problem on a few stories I was following (and not getting notified), so while I'm sorry for those who were missing notifications, I promise it wasn't my fault! I hope that everything's back to normal, and since I think the notifications for chapter 9 were working, that it's going to continue that way without further problem.

I'm going to be honest and say the last couple of chapters have been the hardest so far for me, and that's because I've brought Nicholas back in and had to go back to the book lots and lots. The circumstances of Boucher dying and Nicholas asking for work from Thornton are, obviously, unchanged from the original story, and writing that without repeating word-for-word Gaskell's story (although I do borrow most of Nicholas's conversation, but without the accent - I wouldn't dare attempting such a thing) is hard. (I also went back to my other big story where I didn't change the circumstances of Higgins and Thornton working together, so I also had to make sure I wasn't just repeating _myself_! So weird.) So even though this chapter and half of chapter 9 are pretty much repeated plot points, please be patient with me! I'm not going to ignore Nicholas just because I've changed things up; he's still important, and while Thornton's been awesome at helping Margaret, there's still a lot for him to learn about his workers, and his assocation with Nicholas is a key part of that change that turns him into the man we all love. Or love even better, to put it more accurately. :)


	11. New Beginnings

It had been a quiet morning for Margaret. After a fortnight of tumultuous events and feelings, it was a relief to her to have some time to herself and have a day in which she trusted no new calamities would occur. She spent much of the morning sitting with her father, both occupied in various pursuits and little conversation between them. She hoped that he would soon feel up to the task of beginning his lessons again. Too much isolation would be detrimental to his state of mind, restless as he was capable of being. But she was also unsure of when would be a good time to make a gentle hint without injuring his feelings.

This and one other thought absorbed her mind while she sat in silence. She couldn't help wondering when Nicholas might approach Mr. Thornton and how he would be received. Her father had spoken sagely when he cautioned her against hoping too much. Though Mr. Thornton had done far more than required of a friend in their service, the situation was entirely different for Nicholas. He was not appealing to a family friend, but to a potential employer; Mr. Thornton would not be hearing the plea of a worried sister, but the request of a Union man.

And still she hoped that it would turn out well. Her expectations of Mr. Thornton had risen drastically in the last few days, and she was more optimistic than she knew she reasonably should be. She was anxious and eager for information, to know what occurred between two men who stood so diametrically in opposition to each other. The longer she dwelt on the possible outcomes of their encounter, the more agitated she became, strongly hoping for good news and yet fearing for bad. In hopes that she could clear her head with motion, she retrieved her coat and hat, intending to walk through the country.

Her father, seeing her in her outer garb, said in an approving voice, "Ah, Margaret, are you going to see Mrs. Boucher? Good girl."

She reddened at his assumption, but had not the heart to disappoint him and replied, "I will gladly go there, Father, while you take your nap. I shall return shortly."

He nodded with a gentle smile. "You need not hurry. I know I do not need to worry over you, my dear."

She retreated in embarrassment, and accordingly went. She would not make herself a liar and not visit Mrs. Boucher now. But within herself, she dreaded calling on the poor woman, particularly if Mrs. Boucher was in a similar state of irritation and resentment as she had been the day before.

When Margaret arrived at the little home, however, her original hesitance turned to shame. Mrs. Boucher was changed; indeed, she was very ill, and not merely ailing. The kind neighbor who had accompanied Margaret before was there and had taken charge of the woman's care. Mary Higgins had taken the children back to their home, and Nicholas had gone for the doctor.

"But I do not think the doctor will tell us any different," the kind woman murmured in Margaret's ear. "She is dying, I'm certain, and we have only to wait."

Horrified at this news, Margaret asked, "Will she not rouse herself for her children's sake?"

She was answered with a sad shake of the head. "She is too weak now; she complained against her man fiercely yesterday, but she depended on him something terrible."

"I am sorry," Margaret said, hanging her head. "I wish I had been able to do something for her."

The woman patted her arm kindly. "You could not have done more; there is no stopping such a thing when she is so determined to follow her husband."

Margaret could not comprehend such behavior, but was unable to answer when a knock came at the door and the doctor appeared. Margaret was unnecessary at present, so she left the house and went the short way to the Higginses' home. Perhaps she could at least make herself useful to Mary if the children were there. And if Nicholas had returned, she could discover what came of his application to Mr. Thornton.

She found him occupied in entertaining three of the children, making a penny spin. Such a scene was heartening to her, and she felt her hopes rise that all had gone well. Taking a seat opposite him and gathering the smallest child onto her lap, she braved the question that had hounded her all morning. "Were you able to see Mr. Thornton today?"

Nicholas's face immediately changed to a disgusted grimace. "Aye, I saw and heard _too_ much of him today."

In that instant her hopes fell to the floor. "He refused you, then?"

Even as he spun the penny, he contorted his face in a resigned manner. "I knew he would, so don't you be fretting on that. You're still a stranger here, and weren't like to know how deep feelings run against us. I knew it."

Margaret tried to rally her spirits. "I am sorry. I hope that he at least spoke kinder to you than Hamper did."

Nicholas did not smother the snort he gave in response. "He weren't over-civil, but I didn't expect nothing else from him. I gave him as good as I got. I told him I hadn't so good an opinion as to come of myself, but that another urged me to it."

"Did you tell him that I sent you?" Margaret asked in dismay. If he had known of her involvement and still sent Nicholas away with rough words, her disappointment would be more the greater.

"I don't know as I said your name. I did say a woman had sent me along to see if there was a soft place in his heart."

She knew that there was, but it seemed Nicholas had not touched it. "And he -"

"Said for you to mind your own business," he finished for her, still spinning the penny. "But don't you worry, Miss. I'm not any worse off than I was yesterday, and I'll not sit idly on and let these little ones clem and starve."

It was evident that Nicholas attributed her reaction only to her concern for the children. This suited her just as well, for it would do no good to confess how high her hopes had been for Mr. Thornton. Still she could not resist voicing a part of her opinion. "I am sorry I asked you to go to Mr. Thornton's. I am disappointed in him."

The door behind her creaked, she and Nicholas turned swiftly, and her eyes widened in horror. There in the doorway stood Mr. Thornton, his face an inscrutable mask. But she had no doubt that he had heard her. The children, running in and out as they pleased, had left the door open, so there was nothing to stop him hearing her words when he stood so close.

She felt the heat in her face rise, and she impulsively stood, pushing the squirming child off her lap gently as she did so. She did not know at all what to say, and instinctively, without giving either man another glance, she rushed out the door, hearing only the clang of the door shutting behind her.

Could she possibly explain to him her true meaning? After everything that had happened between them, would he think she was still rigid in her original view of him? Could she convince him otherwise when her own words condemned her? She returned to Mrs. Boucher's side in turmoil, her mind engaged by the man she had just fled from.

He, meanwhile, was doing his best to forget her presence, and how her expression of disappointment stung at his heart. He had thought she looked at him differently; had he just deluded himself? With an inaudible sigh, he turned to face Higgins, determined to carry through with his original purpose for coming here.

Higgins had accused him of not having a soft place in his heart, and though he dreaded public exposure of his tenderness, he would not have it said by anyone that he was not just. And almost immediately after Higgins had left Marlborough Mills he felt he had been unjust in dismissing him as he had, especially considering the man had waited five hours to speak with him. He was compelled by this realization to investigate Higgins's story, even though he had little time to spare.

He had almost hoped to prove Higgins's tale wrong in his search, to justify in some way his brusque refusal, but it was too clear that what the man had spoken was true. Through his discoveries the worthy attributes and character of Higgins were revealed, that despite his gruff and unpolished exterior, he had a patience and generosity far beyond many men. Thus Thornton's desire to serve justice was overcome by a kinder instinct, and he determined to give Higgins work.

But his annoyance at Margaret's words was not so easily put aside, even as he wished to get to the matter at hand. "So Miss Hale was the woman who told you to come to me?" he asked, irritated. "You might have said so."

"And you'd have been more civil in what you said of her, and how you spoke to me?" Nicholas responded with a smirk.

Mr. Thornton exhaled heavily, looking around him. He would not deign to reply to the jibe. Instead, he hoped to direct the conversation elsewhere. "Whose children are these?" he asked awkwardly, perfectly aware of the answer.

"They are mine and they are not."

"And they are the children you spoke of?"

"You didn't believe me," Nicholas replied, a triumphant gleam in his eye at being proved honest. "I've not forgotten."

"Nor have I," Mr. Thornton admitted. "I spoke to you in a way I had no business to. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of a man such as Boucher's children. But I have asked about, and I know now you spoke the truth. I beg your pardon."

For a man such as Thornton to beg his pardon put Nicholas in an unexpected position. He had never thought to see a master humble himself and admit his wrongs. His surprise at Thornton's manner almost eclipsed his indignation that Thornton would pry into his private affairs.

"Well, Boucher's dead," he said gruffly, "and I'm sorry for it. That's enough."

"Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask."

Higgins did not answer right away, uncertain if he would accept the offer, no matter how impressed he was that Thornton would own up to his error. But as he looked around at the children, he knew this was no time to stand on pride. If Thornton was willing to come to his home and admit his mistake, he could extend himself part of the way.

"You've called me impudent and a liar, and I've called you a tyrant and an old bull-dog in my time. But if you think we can get on despite it, for the sake of these children, work is work. I'll come, and what's more I'll thank you, and that's a deal from me."

"And this is a deal from me," Thornton replied, extending his hand in a gesture that surprised them both. Nevertheless, Nicholas took it in a firm grip.

The agreement between them reached, only a few short words further were necessary, and Mr. Thornton soon took his leave. He had not gone far when Margaret emerged from a nearby house, and the sight of her stopped him in his tracks. She did not notice him at first, her eyes downcast, and his instinct on seeing her withdrawn expression was to go to her and ask what was wrong. But he resisted the impulse; if she felt the need to escape his presence only a few minutes before, she would probably not care to speak with him now.

In a moment, she looked up and their eyes met. He shifted rigidly, his face once more settling into a mask. If all she believed of him was his indifference to the plight of a generous man, she must have nothing to say to him. He prepared himself to pass by without a word, but to his great shock she hesitated a bare instant before coming straight toward him.

Before he could react to her approach, she spoke. "Mr. Thornton," she said, her voice filled with a soft pleading. "I hope you will allow me to explain. Heaven knows what you must think of me and what I said to Nicholas, but please do not be angry with me."

She could see his eyes shift about as if he did not know where to look. She herself was a little astonished at her boldness, but she knew the instant she saw him that if she did not speak quickly she would lose her nerve. His silence did nothing to calm her unrest, but she stood still expectantly, waiting with bated breath for him to say something.

Finally he pulled himself out of his stupor. "You will hardly need to explain yourself now, Miss Hale. Your disappointment, I fear, will be short-lived. I have taken Higgins on."

With a slight intake of breath, she allowed herself a pleased smile, even if he would not reciprocate. "I am glad of it. I had hoped you would."

"Yes," he said shortly. "I assumed as much a few minutes ago."

He began to walk away, but she halted him by asking, "Will you not allow me to explain myself?"

He felt some shame when he took in the indignant hurt in her eyes, but his own pride had been wounded, and he was obstinate in his annoyance. For once today, he wanted to be in the right. "There is no need for explanations," he repeated. "You were disappointed, and I have spent too long away from my work. I must get back," he finished hurriedly, moving to walk once more.

But he underestimated her own obstinacy, as she immediately followed and kept pace with him. "Then I will simply have to walk with you until I have said my fill."

Exasperated by her stubborn refusal to let him alone, he turned to face her. "To what purpose, Miss Hale?"

Her face was incredulous. "I want us to understand each other, Mr. Thornton. Do you not desire the same thing?"

It would be completely improper for him to voice all his desires regarding her, so he kept silent.

"We have spent far too much of our acquaintance misunderstanding one another, and I am weary of it. You are so careful to be clear in all you say and do, and I only ask that you do me the justice of making myself clear to you. Judging from your current treatment of me, you think the worst of what you heard me say, and I do not wish that we continue in such a fashion, where we assume that the other is speaking in the harshest terms. I do not regret voicing my disappointment before, but I do think you are being unreasonable in denying me a chance to clarify my meaning."

He was amazed at the way she combined authority and pleading in her voice, and if he was honest, he could grant her assertion that he was being unreasonable, mortified as his ego had been. Moreover, her observation of his habit of speaking with care was an unexpected dart in her arsenal, and he was intrigued that she had noticed such a thing. With a grudging sigh, he said, "Very well. I will hear you. But if you would still be so kind as to walk with me, I did not exaggerate my urgency in returning to the mill."

Pleased that he relented with no further argument, Margaret replied, "Certainly." But as they began to walk again, she was unsure of how to begin. This was always her obstacle with him!

"By now you know that I was the woman who advised Nicholas to appeal to you for work," she uttered meekly.

"And I'm sure he told you my response."

She bit her lip. It was too perverse a situation that she was almost tempted to laugh. "Yes, about how meddling women should mind their own business."

"I did not know at the time that you were the one who urged him to come to me."

"Would it have made it more or less likely that you would have said it?" she quipped.

"I . . ." he was caught off-guard. "I don't know. I hope I would not have, if that's any assurance."

"Now that you know it was me who suggested it, are you not at all curious as to why I did?"

Once again, he stood still. As a matter of fact, that question, so obvious, had not occurred to him at all. He looked at her fully, seeing the intent look of her eye as she studied him. Clearly she had her reasons, and all at once he felt he was a great fool for not wondering what they were. "I . . ." he stammered, feeling out of his depth.

She cut in, sparing him the need to elaborate. "I did so because I know what kind of man you are, one with a good heart." That very organ thumped vigorously in his chest. "I know you are a fair-minded man, one who is just and understanding. I said as much to Frederick barely a fortnight ago. I told Nicholas to speak to you because I thought that if he could look past the master, he would see the man that I see, the man who is capable of great kindness."

Her voice faltered as her embarrassment grew. To praise him so brazenly to his face was something she had not done, and her face felt warm as she looked down, unable to meet his dumbfounded expression. "After all," she said softly," you have proved your kindness to me many times over."

He was tempted to pinch himself to know for certain that he was not dreaming. He was flabbergasted at her open approval, and he could hardly believe it to be true. Was this still short-lived praise inspired by gratitude, or was it something more lasting? He hoped fervently it was the latter, and now he even started to believe it a little. But it was still so incredible he could not bring himself to speak.

"I was disappointed," she admitted, still staring at her feet. "I was disappointed on Nicholas's account, and the children's. But I was more disappointed for you. In the past while, I have come to have such high hopes and expectations for you." She forced herself to meet his eye, praying she could withstand with the intensity with which he looked at her. "Because you have gone above and beyond all my hopes, and I couldn't help believing that you would always do so."

If there was any evidence that their attention was completely absorbed by one another, it was the mere fact that both had forgotten they were in a public street, drawing curious glances from passersby. But they were oblivious to the whispers and wondering of those who observed them, so focused were they on each other. The only comfort was that their distance from each other spared them any of the more impertinent tittle-tattle that could have been derived from their conference.

"I am afraid, Mr. Thornton, that when you heard me say I was disappointed in you, that you were convinced that I had resumed my previous opinion of you, one which," she blushed, "I was unafraid of expressing at the time. But you must know that my impressions of you have changed, and I will not be so blind again to your virtues."

He held his breath, sure she was on the brink of something significant, and he was fearful of spoiling it.

"I was disappointed," she repeated, "but that is only because I think so well of you."

It was hardly a passionate declaration of love, but he could have leapt for joy as the memory of her rejection rose up and was shoved away by this transformation. For her to speak and admit without hesitation of such a change was nothing short of miraculous. He had never felt so confident and exhilarated, and it was all he could do keep from beaming at her.

His expression must have revealed a tiny sliver of his happiness, for her face seemed to relax and lighten as she held his gaze. She even permitted a chuckle to escape her as she continued with an easier tone. "After all, if you look at the situation logically, no one can be disappointed if they don't have high hopes or expectations. You should have been able to deduce my good opinion simply _because_ I said I was disappointed."

His smile burst forth as he replied, "I believe only you, Miss Hale, would use logic in such a way to set me thoroughly in my place." She smiled sweetly in response. "Of course," he dared a more joking inflection in his voice, "it is a perfectly reasonable assertion you have set forth, and I should have thought of it myself."

The tension between them having eased, they began to walk again, finally becoming aware that they were not alone. But he found it difficult to care, so pleased was he with her confession, and she, happy that they had reached some understanding, told herself to pay the other people no heed.

"You are right, however," Mr. Thornton continued, the levity in his voice gone, though his coldness was at an end, "that we have spent a great deal of time misunderstanding each other and believing that we both judge the worst of one another. This must be my excuse for not giving way to reason. We are out of practice at being friends, I believe."

Margaret could not disagree with this, and given her altering feelings for him, she hoped that their acquaintance could blossom into friendship. But at once she felt that even this was inadequate, and her words were choked away at this realization. They had reached the road at which they must part ways and stopped again.

In farewell, he held a hand out to her. "Shall we resolve to try and be friends?" It was far less than he desired, but it was a beginning at least.

She smiled gently, telling herself that this was enough, and she took his hand gladly. "I would like that."

* * *

 **A/N:** Come tomorrow night, I will be going out of town for almost two weeks (an unexpected assignment from my husband's work and I'm lucky that with a little finagling I can tag along), and while I try to stay ahead, this will interrupt my usual goals at posting chapters, since I try to not go more than about four days or so. And I just don't know how much time I'll be able to dedicate to writing. We'll see, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up in case I post chapters slower. Thanks for your reviews and support! See you on the other side!


	12. Pleasure and Pain

Although she had yet to receive another letter from Frederick, Margaret had not forgotten him. Not only had his impertinent insinuations prompted some deep introspection regarding Mr. Thornton, but his request that she write to Henry Lennox had made her more than a little uneasy.

When they had first thought that Frederick would go himself to London, she had written a missive to Henry with his assistance. Now she would have to begin again and explain the situation in greater detail, rather than merely writing an introduction. This proved more difficult on her own, for her brother's presence was not there to speed her along, pretending that it was a simple matter to correspond with Henry. It was done, however, and she was quick to send it off as soon as it was completed. If she tarried in sending it, she might be tempted to revise it again and again.

She had not as yet gotten a reply, and she wondered if her awkward history with Henry was a hindrance to his helping them. However, she reminded herself that Henry was an honorable man who would not likely refuse a request simply because of her rejection. He was not so petty. Still, as the days passed with no word, her doubts resurfaced.

In the meantime, she did receive a letter from Edith, expressing her sympathy over Mrs. Hale's death. Although at first disappointed that she heard from Edith rather than Henry, she was soon won over by the details of Edith's life, most especially of her baby. It seemed so strange to imagine her young-hearted cousin as a mother, and she did long to see the little one. Of course, with her removal to Milton and Edith's remaining on the continent, this had not been possible. So it interested her a great deal to read that her Aunt Shaw was to return to the old house on Harley Street, where Edith and her little family would join her once Captain Lennox sold out. Margaret entertained an idea wherein perhaps she could visit them once they were back in London, but she was surprised to discover that her desire to see London again was not as great as it once had been.

Mr. Hale had also received a letter, from Mr. Bell, who proposed a visit to Milton now that his illness had passed. She tried to take an interest in something that would please her father, but though Mr. Bell was her godfather, she knew little of him aside from Mr. Hale's assurances that he was very agreeable. It seemed, however, that Mr. Bell's visit was not simply for his own amusement. As Mr. Thornton's landlord, he would be occupied on business with him a great deal.

If Margaret had been endeavoring to forget Mr. Thornton, which it should be stated that she had no intention of doing, such a feat would have been impossible. She heard of him not only through Mr. Bell's letter, but during her visits to the Higginses, as Nicholas recounted what kind of master she had set on him.

"He could be much worse than he is, I'll say that for him," Nicholas said one evening soon after he had begun at Marlborough Mills. From Nicholas this was high praise indeed, and Margaret did not hide her smile.

"He's even come here once, though I can't figure why," he shook his head in bemusement. "He's taken an interest in the children, as near as I can tell, asking me what I plan to do for their education."

"I believe Mr. Thornton thinks an education is something very important to acquire," Margaret replied. "He was unable to finish his own schooling, and he regrets this very much. Of course, he could not control the circumstances," she trailed off. The subject of death was very tender, as Mrs. Boucher had succumbed to her illness only days after her husband's demise. Nicholas and Mary had taken the children into their home permanently now. Margaret watched the littlest lad run after his older siblings, trying to keep up with them and howling because he was not yet as fast as they were. In her heart she sympathized with him; she had always been frustrated as a child that Frederick could outpace her with no effort at all.

"No, I suppose he could not," Nicholas agreed. "He speaks well of the old parson," referring to Mr. Hale, "and his talks with him. I did not realize how much you saw of him before."

Margaret's breath stuttered within her. "They meet alone in my father's study for their lessons; I don't see him as often as you might think." Only once so far since they had agreed to try their hand at friendship, and Mr. Hale monopolized much of Mr. Thornton's conversation, as had been usual since the beginning. "But he is a good friend to my father, and to me," her voice faltered a little, but she rallied quickly. "That is why I sent you to him; perhaps in time you might change your opinion. I have, and it's been quite the surprise."

Nicholas peered at her with narrowed eyes. "I can bet it is; I remember you jawing against him with my girl those months ago, calling him an old bull-dog."

"That was you," she rejoined with a grin.

"Well," he drawled, "you didn't fight me on it. Would you now?"

"No," she responded indulgently. "You were not wrong in describing him so. He is stubborn and fierce, just like many Milton men I have come to know."

Nicholas's head snapped up at her hint, and was quick to protest. "Oh, don't you go lumping me with Thornton, Miss! I don't think I could take it. What would the committee say if they heard your wild stories?"

She only smiled silently, delighting in making Nicholas splutter. She could see that despite his protestations, Nicholas was already starting to yield in his view of Mr. Thornton, and it brought her some comfort. Her mind turned to Mr. Thornton more often than ever before. During his last visit, she had felt such a longing to engage with him she felt fit to burst from frustration. Her father was not accustomed to her taking part in his conversations with Mr. Thornton, and her admittedly minimal efforts had been almost for naught, as her father harmlessly managed to steer any subject back to his thoughts on it. Her only hope for Mr. Bell's visit was that her godfather would be enough of a distraction for Mr. Hale that perhaps she might be able to speak more than a sentence to Mr. Thornton.

When Mr. Bell arrived, however, he and she fell into such an easy friendship, she finally began to be glad for her own sake that he came. Almost immediately he began heaping exaggerated praise on her, saying proudly that he had the right to do so as her godfather.

"The last time I saw you, Margaret, you were a mere child," he said jovially after a mock inspection. "I had no idea of how you would turn out. But I am glad to see that you do not take after your father in looks, though he was not too bad-looking a chap in his day," elbowing Mr. Hale good-naturedly.

Mr. Bell gave a lift to Mr. Hale's humor, and he smiled fondly at his friend's ribbing. "Come, come, Bell, Margaret does not know you well enough to understand you."

"Oh, nonsense!" Mr. Bell protested, looking at Margaret's dancing eyes. "She understands me very well, don't you, my dear?"

"I'm almost sorry to admit that I do, Mr. Bell, for I do not wish to shock my father."

This brought forth a laugh from both men, and Mr. Bell did not cease to be an amusing guest from the moment he arrived.

"I must say, though," he observed after a day of easy camaraderie, "you do seem quite wasted in a place like this, my dear Pearl."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Do you not approve of Milton, Mr. Bell, and you a Milton man? Are you not proud of your town?"

"I don't know what there is to be proud of," he replied. "I can already see the kind of influence it's had on you, for I'm certain that you didn't learn your liberal ways from living in London."

"I did my part for the poor in Helstone," Margaret countered.

"Yes, but helping the poor in Helstone is a different animal entirely from taking up the cause of the workers in Milton. I imagine that the activity of the people here caught you quite off your guard when you came, eh?"

Margaret ducked her head, remembering particularly Nicholas's response to her early attempts at charity. "I must confess it did. It is certainly different here."

"And I doubt you have learned to like it at all," he asserted forcefully, turning his head away at just the moment she turned red. "If you would come to Oxford, I would show you a place to glory in."

"When Mr. Thornton comes to tea," Mr. Hale said, "you will have to have some talk with him. He is as proud of Milton as you are of Oxford, and you ought to try and make each other a little more liberal-minded."

"None of that for me, thank you," was Mr. Bell's response. "I know very well of Thornton's pride, and I doubt either of us could change the other's mind."

"Perhaps it would do you both some good to mix a little more," Margaret stated quietly in a tone that made Mr. Bell swivel his head around to study her. She gave away nothing and said nothing more of Mr. Thornton, but something in her voice raised his interest.

"Well, we will have business to discuss with each other, at least," he turned back to Mr. Hale. "We are in the midst of negotiating a new lease, and I expect that will take more time than I care to spend. He is a meticulous man."

Again he glanced at Margaret, but her eyes were focused on her work, and he thought that perhaps there was nothing, after all, to be discovered there.

When Mr. Thornton came, he and Mr. Bell closeted themselves in the study for some time, and Mr. Bell's opinion of him was not improved by the experience. Mr. Thornton himself, though he knew the significance of the business they transacted, was impatient to finish and join the Hales, that is if Margaret were still waiting after such an absurd length of time. As a result, his responses were curt and irritated, and Mr. Bell thought his manners had markedly deteriorated. After their business was concluded, he thought that another topic might improve Mr. Thornton's mood and detained him longer in the study, but this only served to chafe Mr. Thornton even more. It was a relief to both of them when Mr. Bell finally suggested they adjourn to the drawing room.

They entered the drawing room to find Margaret and Mr. Hale talking quietly, a letter in Margaret's hands. But when she looked up, she hastily set the letter aside, and Mr. Thornton saw her cheeks turn rosy in the firelight before she turned away to hide her face. He could not imagine what embarrassed her so, and he hoped it would not keep her quiet all night. He, too, had been frustrated at their lack of conversation the last time they met, and he entertained the same hopes that they might be able to speak to each other while Mr. Bell occupied more of Mr. Hale's attention.

Mr. Hale stood upon their entrance and, after shaking hands with Mr. Thornton, gestured to the letter Margaret had set on the table. "A letter from Henry Lennox. It makes Margaret very hopeful."

For a moment, the combination of Margaret's blush and a letter from a gentleman raised some alarm in Mr. Thornton, but then he remembered the name from the hasty discussions with Frederick, and his tension eased. He nodded along with Mr. Bell and said, "I will add my own hopes that some resolution might be found."

Mr. Bell looked at him in mild surprise. "So you know about the whole business, then?"

Before he could answer, Mr. Hale replied. "Oh, yes. John became acquainted with Frederick's case some weeks ago. He was most helpful."

Mr. Bell was a man of some penetration, and Mr. Thornton did not enjoy being placed under his scrutiny, but fortunately Mr. Bell did not peer at him too long before taking a seat and leaning back leisurely. "Well, that is a relief. I was wondering if you would let any of your acquaintances know about all that trouble. I was not sure myself if I should tell Thornton here about Frederick when we were making arrangements for you to settle in Milton. But now we may discuss him openly."

Margaret's eyes darted back and forth from Mr. Thornton to her father; they had not told Mr. Bell that Frederick had been in Milton recently, only that they were applying to a lawyer for help, and she was not sure it was wise to talk too much of Frederick. Only Mr. Thornton caught her concern, however.

Mr. Hale again spoke before Mr. Thornton could change the subject. "Yes, we are grateful to have John's assistance and support in our troubles. And Henry's, too, of course," he amended with a nod to Margaret.

"Ah, yes, the lawyer friend," Mr. Bell said. "It is kind of him to give some thought to the case. Lennox is a family friend, is he not?"

"Yes," Margaret replied uneasily, keeping her eyes away from Mr. Thornton. She did not desire to talk of Henry before him, and she wished now that Mr. Bell were not so prosy.

But it seemed that Mr. Bell was oblivious to her desires and went on. "And how is he connected to your family?"

"He is my cousin's brother-in-law," she said simply.

"It is kind of him to take an interest." He was becoming more pointed in his words as he began to be a little more aware of Margaret's mood, namely, giving the same kind of brusque responses that Mr. Thornton had given in the study. He supposed he should take pity on her and allow her some maidenly evasions, but his curiosity was too piqued to do so.

"Yes, very kind."

Affecting a casual tone, he looked over to Mr. Thornton, whose expression was beginning to take on a stormy air; he was doubtless displeased at the direction Mr. Bell was taking. "But it is only natural for a family friend to do so, is it not? After all, he must already be knowledgeable of Frederick's situation; you spent a great deal of time together in London, I imagine."

Margaret became nervous at his needling, and she could not help throwing a brief glance Mr. Thornton's way, also seeing his face become more stony. "I suppose," she replied, her throat dry. "But nothing more than would have been common," she defended, "since his brother was courting Edith."

Her father, inattentive as ever to Mr. Bell's implications, spoke up now. "Well, and do not forget, Margaret, that he paid us a visit to Helstone once after Edith was married."

Mortified that her father would so innocently betray her as she was trying to make light of her friendship with Henry, she felt her confidence slip far away as she stammered, "For barely a day, Father. And only because he was interested in seeing the country."

"No doubt because you had spoken so well of it," Mr. Bell broke in, his smile innocent but his eyes playful. "Mr. Lennox must think very well of you, Margaret."

If she felt more at ease, she might have gasped, but under the circumstances she only could widen her eyes. Mr. Bell had gone beyond hints now, and she would have been truly angry with him if she weren't so afraid of what Mr. Thornton must be thinking.

"Bell!" her father interjected, finally seeing what his friend was saying and sounding utterly amazed at the idea. "Are you saying that Mr. Lennox -"

"I am merely wondering, Hale," Mr. Bell cut in. "It seems a great deal of trouble to go to for only a family friend."

The indignation was now beginning to rise up within Margaret, and she spoke now forcefully. "But that is exactly what he is doing, nothing more."

Mr. Bell only raised an eyebrow, but his questioning look was enough to turn her father toward her. "Do you think, Margaret, that Mr. Lennox is interested in helping us as a way to recommend himself to you?"

For her father to take up the idea so quickly was astounding, and she sat with mouth agape. "He could not be doing any such thing!"

"Such an idea, however unlikely you think it, is not improbable," Mr. Thornton said quietly. She turned to him with an aggrieved eye, her chest coiling in horrified realization that he could believe Mr. Bell had hit the mark. Did he really believe she had another suitor? And then her words stopped within her throat that she would think of the word "another" in this situation. He met her gaze steadily with a somber downturn of his mouth. She must make herself clear.

She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. "You must believe me, Mr. Bell, that I regard Henry Lennox only as a friend. If there is anything to what you suggest, it is not at all from my side, I assure you. I have not communicated with him since his trip to Helstone, and that was long before we even came to Milton. I beg of you to stop such talk, as it is entirely untrue and is only painful to me."

She was met at first with silence, but she was relieved to see the playfulness had left Mr. Bell's eyes. With sincerity in his voice, he said, "Then I must beg your pardon, Margaret. I am sorry to cause you any pain. I know so little of women's ways, being an old bachelor myself, and I did not know how much I would offend you. I hope you will forgive me."

She could not bring herself to speak words of forgiveness to him, but she was gratified by his humble apology, so she nodded her head slightly before looking toward her father. For himself, he looked relieved. The idea that she might be sought after had never occurred to him, and however quickly it was over, he had been troubled for that time that there was some question.

"Please, Margaret," he soothed, "do not blame Bell for his ways. He always has been one to stir the pot and see things where they are not. But I also must apologize for giving some heed to his words, so I am sorry for any discomfort I caused you."

The tight coil in her chest loosened some more and she was able to more genuinely pardon her father's part. But it took some time and courage to look Mr. Thornton's way. Mr. Bell, seeing that there was nothing else he could say to Margaret again for some time, drew her father's attention to himself. He had not missed Margaret's desperate glances towards Mr. Thornton during her discomfort, no more than he had missed Mr. Thornton's scowl. It was better to leave the two in peace in hopes of smoothing things over. Of course his original purpose was accomplished, and he found that there was something to discover of Margaret's feelings, after all.

When Margaret did finally summon the bravery to look at Mr. Thornton, she was dismayed to see that his face still was troubled. Did he feel that he must apologize for his statement? In her mind, he had done nothing wrong, and she did not look to him for penitence. Rather, she hoped to make certain that he believed her when she said there was nothing between her and Henry. He must know that there was no other man that she . . . cared for, her heart finished her thought for her. Despite her attempt to rein in her emotions, her breath came in faster as she willed him to meet her gaze. But he would not do so, his eyes staring into an unknown space as though absorbed, and she feared lest his thoughts lingered on the possibility Mr. Bell had erroneously introduced.

She was tempted to flee after such an embarrassing scene, but she thought it wiser to remain. There would be no other way to ascertain Mr. Thornton's impressions. So she rose and poured a cup of tea instead of escaping, and with a soft and hesitant step, took it to him. At last his head rose at her approach, his eyes pensive and questioning. She handed the cup to him in silence, biting the inside of her cheek anxiously.

"Is . . ." he began to say, then shook his head slightly. "What you said, it is true?"

"Very true," she replied eagerly, though still softly. "I have never considered Henry . . . he is only an old friend. I never thought of him as anything else."

His expression softened, though only a little. He seemed still to wrestle with something, and she yearned to comfort him. But she could only stand there and wait until she knew what afflicted him. "And what of his feelings toward you?"

She couldn't stop the silent gasp; she would not lie to him, but this was precisely what she had hoped to avoid, why she didn't want to discuss Henry in front of Mr. Thornton. Unlike her father, who remained blind to any romantic entanglements in her life, Mr. Thornton was directly involved in them. And no matter what his feelings currently were, it was only natural he would take a keener interest in a potential suitor of hers.

"Well," she began, throwing a glance at her father and Mr. Bell as she sat. She prayed they could not hear. "I do not think it likely that Henry could . . . still . . . care for me."

"But he did before." As they so often did, his eyes bore into hers, and she thought she might faint.

"Yes." Better to state the bald facts than shy away from them.

He pursed his lips, whether in disapproval or thought she could not tell. "And you refused him."

"Of course," she breathed. "He took me completely by surprise, and I told him many times that I could only ever think of him as a friend." How long must she endure this excruciating inquiry? "Truly. You must believe me," she pleaded, nearly extending a hand in supplication. But she stopped herself; they were not alone, after all.

And still he took his time to speak! It was a torture to her, even as she understood that he must gather his thoughts. "So you were not a stranger to unexpected proposals before you came to Milton."

It could almost have been a joke if his tone was not so sober. She ducked her head. "I suppose I was not."

"I am sorry for it. You deserve a declaration you genuinely desire."

She could not resist meeting his stare now, his expression a somber mixture of compassion and pain. If she could properly take his hand now, she would. "I still hope for it. Some day."

He said nothing, only looked at her with cocked head and searching stare. She met him head-on, hoping that she could convey in her look something of the feelings he inspired in her. She wished to give him hope, now that she realized more fully her own desires. But she did not know how to say it, inexperienced as she was.

Finally he said, "I am sure that day will come." But his tone was so enigmatic that she was not sure in what way he meant it. In any case, this particular discussion had probably run its course, and she was exhausted from the gamut of emotions she had experienced in just the last half hour.

She stood slowly. "I think I will retire," she declared to her father. "I am tired."

"Of course," her father said gently, no doubt attributing her withdrawal to her earlier embarrassment. "Good night, my dear."

Mr. Bell clearly meant to tread lightly still, so he simply nodded and bid her good evening before engaging her father once again. She did not know he did so to clear the way for Mr. Thornton to say good night more privately, but as she turned away, she was glad to see Mr. Thornton rise and take the opportunity afforded him.

"Good night, Mr. Thornton," she said, reaching her hand out to him at last.

The gentle way in which he took her hand in his, warming and reassuring her, almost took her breath away. For a moment, he said nothing, but he did dare running his thumb lightly over her knuckles, making her swallow weakly. "Good night, Miss Hale," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with possibility.

It was too much for her; any more sensations, pleasurable or painful, and she would swoon. Without another word she made her escape.


	13. Regret and Redemption

Margaret had felt obliged to attend to her father and Mr. Bell for much of the latter's visit. Mr. Bell's mortifying behavior on the night Mr. Thornton came had made her wary and questioning of the wisdom of doing so, but her godfather seemed so sincerely regretful for her embarrassment that she did not ignore him as she had been tempted to do. After some natural reticence in the wake of that evening, she and Mr. Bell were able to resume an easy association, as long as he stayed away from certain topics.

However, no matter how much she enjoyed the visit and diverting company, she was grateful for an opportunity to escape the house for some peace that Sunday afternoon. The sweltering heat of summer was beginning to temper in anticipation of coming autumn, and it was a pleasant walk to the churchyard. She held a small bouquet in her hands, intending to leave it at her mother's grave. Her father could not yet summon the courage to return to the site, and this was the first time she had come, only now feeling that she could bear it.

For some time she stood at the marker in silent contemplation. If her mother had been more hale and hearty, she wondered what they would have talked of together. Much of their conversation in the previous year had revolved around her mother's health and complaints of Milton. If Mrs. Hale had been less fidgety and more interested in Margaret's life, would Margaret have confided in her about Mr. Thornton's proposal? What would have been her mother's opinion of him as her daughter's lover? Would she have been just as ignorant of the idea as her father was?

A rueful smile crossed her lips as she considered this thought. In a short time she would reach her twentieth birthday, and yet in certain areas it seemed her father still thought of her as a child. Or perhaps, she thought with a bitter twinge, he had simply assumed she would never marry and be free to attend on him the rest of his days. Imagining such a future was not a terrible blow to Margaret, but she was realizing that it was not a future she desired.

After a sufficient and respectful period had passed, she now supposed it was time to return home. But before she moved away, she felt a prickle run through her and a strange apprehension that she was being observed. Of course others were in the cemetery, but they had not taken any more notice of her than she had of them. In a small fit of alarm, she looked about her. Who would have any interest in her actions?

When she turned around, her alarm dissipated instantly. She had not been wrong in her feeling, but the man who recognized her was not one to fear. Upon her turning, he strode forward, and she gave him a shy smile as he came closer.

"Good day, Mr. Thornton."

"Miss Hale," he nodded. "I thought perhaps it was you, but I was not sure. I hope I am not disturbing you," he now gestured to the grave.

"No, not at all," she replied quietly. "I was about to return home, and I . . . for a moment I had a feeling someone was watching me. I am glad to not be wrong."

A little abashed, he said, "I apologize if I caused you any discomfort. I give you my word I did not notice you for very long before you turned around, but I felt it inappropriate to call out to you here."

"I understand, and there is no need for you to apologize."

They stood awkwardly together for a moment, their surroundings doing little to put them at ease. But he did not allow the silence to last long. "You said you were returning home?"

"Yes," she said, eager to grasp at any conversation he offered.

"I was planning to call on your father and Mr. Bell after stopping here. Might I escort you back?"

"Do you not wish to stay longer?" Margaret asked, embarrassed that he might be cutting his private business short on her account.

"No," he replied hurriedly. "I have done what I came to do, I assure you."

"Oh," she murmured, suddenly curious and shy. What had brought him here, and what was to be made of this habit they were falling into of these walks together? "Then certainly, I would be happy to have your company. I'm sure Father and Mr. Bell will be glad to see you."

He held an arm out to allow her to walk ahead of him as they exited the yard, but he abruptly dropped it as she passed. She wondered if he did so in order to prevent her taking it in her own. He gave nothing away as he took his place alongside her and continued on the thread she had begun.

"I am not certain Mr. Bell will be enthusiastic about seeing me. We are both too set in our ways, and I may have vexed him the other night when I would not bow to his belief in Oxford's superiority."

She smiled. "Yes, he is eloquent on that subject. I am sorry I could not witness that conversation."

He was hesitant in his reply. "I would have been interested to hear whose side you took up, but I did not blame you for withdrawing. It was not a comfortable evening for you."

She glanced toward the ground, wishing the reason for her escape would not be repeated between them. Her lack of a reply was hint enough to Mr. Thornton and he looked behind him at the cemetery they had just left. Her purpose for being there was not a happy topic, but perhaps it might be less troublesome to speak of.

"Have you visited your mother's grave before today?"

The gentleness of his manner softened any of the impropriety of the question, but she could not resist looking toward him in mild surprise. "No," she admitted.

His gaze was understanding. "You are brave to come alone, especially so soon. Many women would not be willing to do so."

"I have never been one to give way to fear. That is, any trepidation I felt was less than my sense of obligation. I mean," she tripped over her words in an attempt to correct herself, "it is not obligation alone that brought me here; I felt I must come, but not only out of duty. But . . . it was part of it." She felt tongue-tied and wanted to scold herself for her incoherence.

He, however, did her more justice. "Of course you came as part of your duty, but your sense of duty is informed by the love you bore your mother. It is admirable, and I am envious of your good intentions. I must admit that my own visit does not reflect any noble motivation. My obligation is not touched with the same tenderness yours is."

Such a reference was too tempting to resist. "Might I ask -" she stopped nervously, biting her lip. "If it is not too im-"

"My father," he interrupted shortly.

"Oh," she said, a deep red overspreading her cheeks. "I am sorry, I did not mean to pry."

He shook his head. "It is no secret; you do not need to be ashamed of asking." He paused in thought, then continued. "It is seventeen years this week. My mother and sister will come on the day, but I prefer to make my pilgrimage alone. I do not think my mother approves of my lack of reverence."

To think that there was something in him that his mother would not approve of! This alone was astonishing.

"Do not misunderstand me; I hardly spit upon his grave. But it is difficult for me to show the grief my mother expects. I am still too resentful of the circumstances we were left in, and while he was not a cruel father, I do not have enough good to remember him by to override the lingering anger."

His candor was unexpected, to say the least, and Margaret had little idea of how to respond.

He looked at her soberly. "No doubt you think I lack compassion."

"I . . ." she was at a loss, for in general nothing could be further from the truth. "I do not think that precisely, but . . . I do not know. I cannot judge you for your feelings; I can understand them very well. Your life was so changed because of his actions, and it was not easy for your family. It can be difficult, even when you know a man is in the most miserable circumstances, to not feel a little that he should have given more thought to how such a step affected his loved ones. Sometimes compassion, even when you know you should feel it, is not so simple to come by. That is why we must call on God for what we cannot do."

His answering smile was laced with a bitterness that made her doubt herself, and she asked, "You do not agree?"

"On the contrary. But I have been too stubborn to call on God in my case; I am afraid that He will grant my petition. And there is a part of me that wishes to hold on to my resentment. To me, it is almost a righteous feeling, to know that I was able to bring our family out of poverty and succeed where he could have if he had simply tried. I am too disappointed in him to truly believe he is deserving of my pity. But I know how that makes me appear; I have not yet learned to condemn such feelings."

"And yet you know you should," she ventured, which he acknowledged with a curt incline of his head.

"I suppose so. But knowing a thing and carrying it out are not the same. Though it has been so long, I am too obstinate. You would not be so unforgiving, I'm sure."

"I would not say that with such confidence. I am capable of holding on to resentment just as easily as anyone else, I think. I still can't help wondering how my relationship with my family would have been different if I had not been sent to London for so many years. My parents meant well, and my mother especially desired my improvement, but I do occasionally wish I had been allowed to stay in Helstone. I cannot help thinking . . ." she trailed off. Did she dare admitting all her feelings? Was it at all respectful considering her errand just now?

"Yes?" he prodded.

"I cannot help thinking that if I had been able to stay in Helstone, my relationship with my mother would have been . . . better. When her illness began to get more serious last winter, I thought perhaps that she would rely on me more, and that we might draw closer together despite the trouble. But it did not transpire in that way. She depended on Dixon more and more, but not on me. I was jealous of that. I wished that she would think of me. But Dixon has been with her since before my parents were married. It was only reasonable that she should turn to the companion she had always turned to; she was not in the habit of including me in her life."

He did not respond right away, and she hurried on in a grip of panic. "I know one shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I should not have said that; my mother's memory deserves more respect."

His eyebrows furrowed and he held up a hand to stop her. "Do not berate yourself, Miss Hale. There is a difference between speaking ill of someone and expressing your wishes that you could have had a better association. It is natural to wonder at such a time what might have been and to think what more you could have done. I do not think you have been disrespectful."

She let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. At least he was generous enough in excusing her speech and not judging her too harshly.

"In any case," he went on, "even if what you said was inappropriate, it was no worse than what I said about my father. In fact, it was much better."

She tilted her head at him as she sighed. "I only wished to tell you that your feelings are not irrational, and that you are not the only one to be stubborn in holding on to negative sentiments. We are all susceptible to certain weaknesses, and some go their entire lives being unaware what sins easily beset them. You, at least, have some consciousness of your flaws and know they must be changed."

"But does that not condemn me all the more?" he asked, a curious look in his eye. "If I know my defects and openly refuse to overcome them, am I not more accountable than one who is truly ignorant of their weakness?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but paused. His assertion was sound, and she could not refute it. Instead, her mouth curved into a half-smile. "Then I would suggest that you cease your obstinacy and not revel so proudly in your refusal to improve yourself."

His eyes narrowed, but not in an unfriendly way, a smile playing upon his lips, as well. "I revel in it, you think?"

She shrugged. "You yourself said that it was a righteous feeling in a way. It is true that you succeeded and you should be proud of what you have done for your family, but you would also do well to be careful." With a sobering tone, "One never knows when their time is come. You would not wish to be condemned for eternity for something you _know_ you can do."

His face became more contemplative. "What you suggest is not easy."

"No," she agreed. "But it is worth it in the end. And I am confident that you will be able to conquer your harsh feelings and find it in your heart to forgive your father." She saw a fleeting pain pass through him, and she reached a hand out to touch his arm gently. "And even if you do not succeed, I would ask that you at least try, sincerely. It is not right to hold on to such bitterness. No matter what it means for the life to come, holding on to that anger will do you no good in the life you live now."

He was silent, but he did not look angry at her advice. Instead, he regarded her intently. "Will you help me be accountable in the attempt?"

She chanced a small smile. "I would be glad to be of assistance to you. Whatever you wish of me, I will do."

A curious expression passed over his face. Did she know how such an offer could be taken, his wishes being what they were? She looked confused at seeing the change in his demeanor, so she clearly did not know in which way his thoughts tended, and he felt it better to change the subject.

Forcing a lightness into his voice, he said, "I am grateful for your service in my behalf, but perhaps it is best we leave such thoughts behind us for now. It will be a work of some time for me, after all, and I would not want you to become discouraged that I cannot be talked into complete contrition in one afternoon."

Her smile grew. "I think it is a rare person who is able to do such a thing. I will not be discouraged."

By this time, they had neared her home, and they entered to considerable interest on the part of her godfather. Of course, Mr. Hale had expected Mr. Thornton to appear some time today, and it was sensible for Margaret to come across the gentleman on her way, but it was a fortuitous curiosity that he wondered at. Margaret absented herself for a moment to lay aside her outer trappings, and there was no missing the lingering gaze Mr. Thornton gave to the shadow of her after she had left. And it was clear that upon her reappearance that he sat up straighter and cast his eyes her way many times.

Ah, the foibles of uncertain love, the old bachelor mused to himself. It was clear enough to him that both Margaret and Mr. Thornton had an interest in each other, but it seemed that each was unsure of the other's feelings. He would gladly nudge them along if he could, amusing a situation as it was, but he did not dare push his luck with his sensitive goddaughter. She had not appreciated his implications about Henry Lennox one bit, and though her feelings appeared to be engaged by Mr. Thornton, any teasing or hinting on Mr. Bell's part would probably be appreciated just as equally.

After the visit was ended and Mr. Thornton had regretfully taken his leave, Margaret excused herself to her room quietly. Mr. Bell thought this an auspicious time to bring up his suspicions to his friend. After all, _his_ feelings had not been mortified the other night and Mr. Bell had no hesitation speculating aloud.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Hale, that there might be something between Thornton and your daughter?"

Mr. Hale's head whipped around, startled at the question. "Good heavens, no! Well . . ." he lingered on the idea in thought. "That is, the idea had never struck me at all, but it seems impossible. Margaret has spent a great deal of time virulently disliking him, poor fellow."

"They seem to get along well just now," Mr. Bell observed.

"Well, you may be right in that," Mr. Hale replied in a troubled tone. "Margaret has admitted to me that her opinion of him has changed, but for it to come to _that_ , I never thought of it. I'm sure _she_ has never thought of it. Such an idea could never enter her head!"

"Entering her heart would do. As you know, I'm only an old bachelor and quite ignorant of such things, but I should say there are some pretty symptoms about her."

Mr. Hale eyed his friend narrowly. "First Mr. Lennox and now Mr. Thornton. Are you determined to make such suppositions about every friend my daughter has?"

"Certainly not; only with the friends who give me reason to suppose."

"You are probably wrong, though," Mr. Hale proclaimed, trying to convince himself more than Mr. Bell. The possibility of the idea was certainly greater now that Margaret and Mr. Thornton were getting along so much better. But Margaret was young, far too young to be entertaining such ideas. Although, he checked himself, she was almost twenty, and her cousin Edith had been married now for nearly a year and a half. But, determined not to think about Mr. Bell's suggestion, he changed the subject abruptly.

Margaret herself, unsuspecting of Mr. Bell's keen observations, was engaged in some curious behavior that would only further inflame the veracity of his notion. She hummed absently to herself, her mind floating away to rest on the memory of blue eyes, and she reached into her drawer, pulling out a pair of worn gloves. She sat on the edge of her bed, caressing the leather gently with her hands, a faint smile gracing her lips.

* * *

Yay, I'm back home! It was such an unexpected (but good) trip for our family, but it's nice to get back into regular routines. And so I'll also be trying to get back into a more consistent schedule with posting. Stay tuned, and thank you for all your kind reviews!


	14. Parental Concern

John Thornton sat before the fire, his brow furrowed in thought. Never before had he suffered from such a dichotomy of feeling. His mill, once an unquestionable source of satisfaction and pride, now plagued his mind with worry and doubt. When he turned his thoughts to it, which was often, he could not stop the helpless frustration that seeped into his being. And then in an instant, his thoughts would shift to a subject that had once caused the same helpless feeling, but now brought about a hopeful pleasure. He was tempted to grin to himself in remembrance of Margaret's smile, but he did not want to invite an inquiry from his mother, who sat up with him.

Although Mrs. Thornton was ostensibly focused on her needlework, her glances at her son were frequent. Always one to speak openly with her, she was troubled by his silence. She had been intensely curious about the new terms of the lease, but all he had told her was that his business with Mr. Bell was concluded satisfactorily. And though he had volunteered that information without any question on her part, his brevity seemed almost evasive. But she would not relinquish her role as his confidant so easily, so she had sat up until his return from the Hales', and they remained silent together for nearly half an hour, although she saw his face change as frequently as his thoughts did.

"You are troubled, I can see," she observed during one of his darker expressions. "Will you not tell me the cause?"

He looked up sharply, but was not surprised. Her continued presence so late in the evening was evidence that she wished to make him talk. He heaved a sigh. "Nothing beyond the usual trouble, Mother. You shouldn't fret over me."

If she were less of a lady, she might have snorted audibly. "Asking a mother not to fret over her son is like trying to keep back the tide. Your burden is my burden. You may as well tell me the truth of it. Your new terms are unfair, I imagine?"

He shook his head. "No. The lease with Mr. Bell is much the same as before; he was more than tolerably fair, despite his worries. And those are justifiable, in my opinion."

"That is ridiculous," she protested. "Mr. Bell should know better than to doubt you. You will find a way to pull through; you always have."

His answering smile was more a grimace. It was kind of her in her peculiar sharp way to have such relentless faith in him, but there was faith and then there was willful blindness. "I wish I could agree."

Her lips pursed in response. "It's that Higgins making trouble and putting doubts in your head, I shouldn't wonder." There was no question of Mrs. Thornton's views of that man and his ilk, nor of her opinion of her son's employing him.

Again Mr. Thornton shook his head. "No, he has done nothing untoward. He has been a man of his word. He is not seeking to stir up trouble where there is none. As far as I can see, he's a good worker, and if he has any grievance, he has not spoken to anyone about them."

"Not yet, at least," she said dryly.

He cocked in his head in exasperation that she would not accept his own observations of the curious Union man. "Higgins told me himself that if he thought I was running things unfairly, he'd come to me. Nothing I've discovered of him has made me doubt his word. And I have kept my eye on him to be sure of it, too."

She sniffed in response. "I still don't know why you took him on in the first place, when it's him and his kind has put us in this trouble to begin with. And to visit him, besides! What can you be thinking, John?"

"I was thinking that a man was desperate to support a family who could not help themselves, so desperate as to go against his natural pride and principles to come to me. You know how the Union treats the men who they deem traitors. Just imagine what they think of Higgins now, one of their leaders bowing and scraping for work. He knew full well that he could be ostracizing himself from the allies and friends he has, and yet he asked for work for the sake of those children."

"You do not mean to say you admire this fire-breather!" she exclaimed with some heat herself.

Honestly, he did admire Higgins for taking such a risk, but he would not inspire more wrath in his mother by admitting it openly. Still, he felt compelled to say something in defense. "I am intrigued by him. He confounds me by his behavior, and I want to understand what drives him. I don't think I have met any man like him."

Mrs. Thornton narrowed her eyes. He may have thought to conceal his begrudging admiration, but it had shown through just the same. "If you think you can really understand those rabble-rousers, I'm afraid you will be disappointed, John. They are not like you."

His response was quick and quiet. "Those children that Higgins has taken responsibility for are like me in a very real way. And I think that they are fortunate in the same way I was in similar circumstances, in fact in the only way I was fortunate. They have someone who is willing to sacrifice their comfort so that they might have a fighting chance."

She did not misunderstand the allusion to her husband's death, and was mute in her son's acknowledgment of her past efforts. But it galled her to see his point and recognize that in some ways they were not so dissimilar from the poor family, and she would never say so out loud. The fact that she would not argue his point meant that he knew she relented, and it was irksome to be proved wrong even in a small way.

"If there is trouble at the mill," he continued, "I don't think it will be of Nicholas Higgins's making. There is enough to deal with at present without worrying needlessly over him." In this way, he steered the conversation away from Higgins and back to the mill in general, which she would not be ashamed to comment on. She was quick to latch on to the deviation.

"How long do you think you can continue if things don't improve?"

He shrugged. "Maybe a year, if I stretch. Perhaps longer. But I would prefer to hope that something will turn around."

"What can I do, John?"

He gave her a small smile. She would never give up, no matter their circumstances, and he was grateful for her staunch support. "Nothing more than you already do. We must depend on outside forces to change our fortunes at this point, I'm afraid. I can work all I can to keep the mill going, and I will, but I am dependent on others just as my workers are dependent on me."

Mrs. Thornton reflected bitterly that it was terribly unfair that despite her son's principled and steady efforts, his life's work must crumble because of others' blindness. She would not abandon him, though, and he would always do right by her.

"Then I suppose I must pray for God to do what we cannot," she stated coldly. She was a woman of faith, but she found it difficult to surrender to control to anybody. She preferred to see the hands who held the reins, and in most cases, wanted to be the very person whose hands held them. She had raised her son to have the same sense of duty, so it surprised her to see a quirk of his mouth at her words. "Why do you smile?"

He tilted his head in remembrance. "It is nothing to signify, only Miss Hale said something very like that this afternoon."

If there was any subject that would draw her ire more than that fellow Higgins, it was Margaret Hale. Even after all this time, she was afraid of the hold that girl might still have on her son. As he had requested that day he had come home heartbroken, they had not spoken of her. But his tender heart was too generous to her father, and he had been constant in his visits to the Hales' home. No matter any private resolutions he may have made in regards to Miss Hale, to still enter her home so frequently could be dangerous. If only she could be sure he was making some effort to forget the ungrateful girl, Mrs. Thornton might be satisfied, but his request for silence meant she had no way of knowing his heart on that score now.

Still, that he spoke her name now alerted a sense of peril in Mrs. Thornton, and she raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she asked icily.

He forced himself not to wince at her tone. It was a small risk mentioning Margaret in any context before his mother, and he had hoped his preface -claiming it was nothing of significance- to saying her name would alleviate any hostility on his mother's part. But it was not to be. Mrs. Thornton was too much a fierce mother bear to stop protecting him from a potential threat. Whatever he did or said to soothe her fears of a possible blow to him, when it came to Margaret, she would not _be_ soothed. With a resigned sigh, he replied, "Yes, about asking God to do what we cannot do ourselves."

"And what did _Mr._ Hale have to say?" she stabbed the fabric with her needle ferociously.

"He was not present for that particular conversation," he said evenly, preparing for a violent response.

Her head came up swiftly, her eyes flashing. "Why not?"

Still keeping his voice steady in an effort to calm her, he said, "We came upon each other in the cemetery on my way to Crampton. It was not a planned meeting, Mother. And it was only natural that we would walk together, and just as natural to have some conversation on the way."

"Most natural," she rejoined, her lips pressed tightly together. Did that girl still have her clutches in him?

It was difficult to keep his eyes from rolling. "I can hardly ignore her existence, Mother. If not for anything else, Mr. Hale is my friend, and I could not avoid her forever. In any case, I never wished to avoid her. I was not going to be intimidated away from attending to him or to Mrs. Hale, while she lived."

Never one to beat around the bush, she cut in. "You are not still thinking of her, John?" He looked away at this, and in angry astonishment she plowed ahead. "You cannot be serious! After all she did, you have not moved beyond her? I thought you had more sense than that."

He turned back, his eyes hooded. "Was I to forget her in a matter of a few minutes, or even a few days? What must you think of my feelings, Mother, that I could cast them aside so easily?"

"I certainly hoped that you would _try_ ; a girl like her was not worthy to turn your head in the first place."

He focused on breathing in and out so he would not snap back too forcefully. "Why is that? Because she does not live up to your exacting standards? What woman does?"

"A woman deserving of you would at least know the honor and privilege of gaining your affections," she retorted. "She just tossed them back in your face; you! As though you were not worth the dirt on her feet. She did not know the quality of the man she rejected, and I cannot forgive her for that."

"You judge her too harshly, Mother," he murmured. "I would not allow you to speak against her then, and I will not allow it now."

Mrs. Thornton bit back her tirade at his formidable tone. She knew if she pressed ahead in the same way, he was sure to stalk out of the room without another word. In a gentler voice, she asked, "Truly, John, what good is there in holding on to those feelings? They have only brought you pain. I cannot bear to see it."

He refused to meet her eye. "It is not your place to decide what my feelings are. You do not have the power to command them."

With a swift movement, she rose and crossed over to the back of his chair, reaching over to lay her hands on his shoulders. "I am not telling you what to feel, just to think about where those feelings lead you. Even if she accepted you, what kind of marriage would it be? Does she really understand you and your life?"

Jolting out of her grasp, he walked to the mantel and leaned against it for support. But he said nothing and she went on. "She is so very different from us here, John. How could she bear the hardness of life?"

Now he met her eyes, his own incredulous and annoyed. "What do you think she has done since she came here, gone into hiding? She is not a weakling by any stretch, not in the way you suggest. She has taken responsibility for her family and fought for a life here, finding friends and causes to support -"

"And what kind of causes and friends has she found?" she interrupted forcibly.

He waved her off. "No matter what beliefs she has adopted, mistaken or not, the point is that she has not cowered in fear simply because life in Milton is hard. You cannot dispute that. She has been stronger than you give her credit for, and life here has not broken her. If," here his voice faltered, "she were to choose me, she would not change."

"She is very young," Mrs. Thornton replied warningly. "She can change a great deal yet. You are set in your ways; can you be certain you could endure such an inexperienced girl as your wife?"

He set his jaw rigidly. "I do not see how the difference in our ages can be of significance to you. Fanny is hardly older than Miss Hale and you are willing to consider Watson as a suitor for her, and he is older even than me."

"That is because they come from the same people, John!" she argued. "Fanny knows what kind of life she should expect by marrying him. Would Miss Hale have that same knowledge, really? Does she know what it means to be a wife to _you_? All the example of marriage she has is the southern gentlemanly sameness that has too much time to spare. What of being the wife of a master, who spends so much time away? When you had to go to Liverpool so lately, with barely a word of warning, would she understand that?"

His mouth jerked oddly as he restrained the bubble of humor that rose up at her reference to Liverpool. Little did she know that Margaret herself was responsible for that particular excursion. But it was fortunate for his mother that that bizarre twist in her argument prompted such a reaction, for he had quickly grown furious at her picture of Mr. Hale. They might not live their lives at the same pace, but there was no call for such an attack. So there was no telling what he might have said without something to temper his indignation, and Mrs. Thornton's ignorance of the true purpose of his Liverpool errand was peculiar enough to stop any angry rebuttal. He rubbed at his jaw, thinking over an answer to the question she threw at him.

"She would learn," he said simply. "Just as I would. I have no more practical knowledge than she has, but I am willing to take the chance. And if her feelings prompt her to the same chance, she will be willing to learn. And besides that, she is hardly blind _now_ as to what I do. You must stop speaking of her as though she knows nothing about me."

"Does she know more of you now? Do you really believe that she has changed at all toward you?" Mrs. Thornton asked in amazement.

He met her stare steadily before replying. "Yes."

She was stunned. What was there to say to this? "But," she stammered, "but how could she? What could have changed?"

His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "Thank you for your faith in me, Mother."

"That is not what I meant, John, and you know it!" she returned hotly. "No one knows better than I your merit. But what makes you think she is more favorable now? You thought she would accept you then and look what happened."

The smile was gone and replaced by a stern frown. "No, Mother. If you recall, I had no real hope then that she cared for me. It was you who urged me on, thinking her actions were proof of her feelings."

"You did hope!" she protested. "I know you did."

"It was a fool's hope, and I knew it then. I did allow myself to imagine that she would love and accept me, that is true. But I had no real expectations. I was disappointed, but I was not surprised. She did not understand me."

"And she does now?" Mrs. Thornton grasped feebly.

Again he paused before answering, his lips pursed pensively. "I think she is beginning to. And so I think my own hopes are better founded. At least, to hope for her love does not seem so foolish to me now."

He spoke with deliberate finality, and in any case, she felt too ill from the churning emotions within her to pursue the argument any further. Not only did he still care for that girl, but he allowed himself to pin his hopes on her again? There was nothing for it for Hannah Thornton but to resolve that she would stand beside him when the fickle girl jilted him again. Perhaps then he would see who truly cared the most for his happiness. And for now she would only say, "I hope your aspirations do not lead you astray."

She took up her work and left the room, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings. She probably thought her parting words were the best she could muster, but there was no mistaking the obvious disbelief in her voice. She would not conceive of Margaret's assent until it was actual fact, and he had not detailed to her all the reasons he had to hope for fear that she would only resist him and ridicule Margaret. And he did not want his cherished desires to be sullied.

Had Margaret not gone out of her way to assure him that she was not attached to Henry Lennox? Not only had she spoken forcibly to Mr. Bell about it, but there had been that private exchange between themselves. His quiet questioning of her had been forward and could have pushed her away, but she had responded quickly and earnestly, and it seemed especially important to her that _he_ know there was nothing between her and Mr. Lennox. Why would that be important to her unless she felt something at last? And when he had dared to caress her fingers with his thumb, she had clearly been overwhelmed, but she did not pull away out of disapproval. She had boldly and bluntly told him that she thought well of him, and while he did not think it beyond her to speak so directly to any friend, he hoped that his study of her blushes did not mislead him.

It was not an easy matter to lay himself open to her about his father, but she had responded with compassion and kindness, speaking about her own regrets with her mother, defying any impropriety in their speaking of such a personal subject. That was not a conversation shared between mere friends, was it? Her desire to help and encourage him to better feelings did not imply a casual acquaintance, but a deep and real connection. Unbeknownst to her, she inspired and stirred him, and he no longer felt himself a buffoon when he was with her.

His mother doubted it now, but she would soon see he was not wrong to give up on Margaret Hale. If all went as he hoped, Margaret would love him in return.


	15. Ever Closer

With a final edict that Margaret must be brought to Oxford, Mr. Bell took his leave of Milton and the Hales. His absence was a great loss to his friend, and his goddaughter was even sorry to see him go. The last month had been a time of great upheaval for her family, and Mr. Bell's merry ways had been a welcome respite from their troubles and sorrows. Now that he was gone, Margaret and her father began to settle into a steady routine.

With no invalid to care for, Margaret at first felt herself at a loss of how to occupy her time. Mr. Hale would resume his teaching, but what of her? She hit upon a solution quickly, deciding to devote her time to the Boucher children. Several days a week, she would walk over in the morning to provide Mary Higgins some support with the little ones. The older children had been found a school to attend, so Mary was not too overwhelmed, but she was unused to small children on a permanent basis, and an extra pair of hands was welcome.

Margaret found it difficult to converse with Mary, who was as reserved as Bessy had been open. Still, despite her clumsiness, for she was a tall girl who had not yet accustomed herself to her long limbs, she found quiet ways to express her appreciation for Margaret's company. After a fortnight of visits, she even managed a smile that made Margaret feel triumphant for rousing. Perhaps they would never be great friends, but they were forging a quiet bond in their shared experience.

Despite Mary's quietness, she looked up to Margaret as an ideal to be copied, and at times tried to mimic her graceful ways. Her success at such endeavors will not be recorded here. But her veneration for Margaret meant that she stored in her memory even the smallest detail of what "the young miss" said or did. Perhaps one day, she thought, she would outgrow her awkwardness and be half as pretty and kind as Margaret Hale.

If Margaret had been aware of Mary's hero-worship of her, she would have immediately disabused the girl of the notion that she was some kind of paragon. But Mary's admiration was quiet, so she was none the wiser. She would have been surprised to have such an acolyte.

Mary was not the only one in that family undergoing changes. Nicholas was noticeably quieter, less given to erratic action and more to steady thinking. He also had finally begun to see the value of his remaining daughter and, in parallel to his new habits, he treated her more gently than he had previously done. Whether this was due to the influence of other children in his home or his employment or a combination of them, Mary was uncertain. But she responded to his change in demeanor by confiding in him some of what she thought about Miss Hale.

Nicholas was determined to do better by the children now in his care. If he took the time to examine this change, he might have attributed some of this behavior to the puzzling interest of his new master. For Mr. Thornton to come to his home once was strange enough, but he had returned again, and his interest in the children's welfare was readily apparent. Nicholas could not help noticing there was far more to the man than he had given him credit for, and he began to think that he should not have been so hasty to lump Mr. Thornton with the other masters of Milton.

Mr. Thornton's curiosity of Nicholas was not easily answered, and not only because of the contradicting behavior of the man. He was becoming increasingly busy and could make only sparing visits to anyone. This hindered his progress of understanding Nicholas Higgins, but it also kept him from seeing Margaret, which gnawed at him more deeply. He wished he could see her as often as Mary Higgins did; then perhaps he would not feel that time was so lamentably slow. They were getting on better, but there had been little change beyond their last private conversation. He found himself wishing that she would remain at the Higginses's home until evening, specifically an evening that he found his way there, as well. Then he might have the chance to walk her home and speak without anybody else to interfere.

Of course he valued Mr. Hale's friendship, but he could hardly attempt courting Margaret, or even ask her if he might do so, when her father believed it was _him_ he primarily wished to speak to during his visits. He could no longer attend on his friend during the day, so they had ceased private lessons for the time-being, and Margaret was always there when he did come. He supposed he must inform Mr. Hale of his intentions, but that would require a private audience, and he did not wish to be deprived of Margaret's presence for even a moment. And to speak of such things to her father in front of her would be shockingly embarrassing for them all. Not to mention that he would never be allowed to be alone with her ever again once he did speak to Mr. Hale.

Margaret, meanwhile, had no idea of the struggle Mr. Thornton was suffering, since she was so preoccupied with her inconsistent views on _him_. The last time she felt a hint of Mr. Thornton's continued affection was that caress of her hand the night of Mr. Bell's teasing; since then, although friendly, he had betrayed nothing more, and she found herself doubting. She had no idea how to encourage him if he was, indeed, contemplating pursuing her again, and even if she did possess the knowledge, there had been no opportunity for encouragement. She was not a flirtatious girl, and her father's constant presence hindered anything else she might have done to determine Mr. Thornton's feelings. To be stuck in such stagnation was frustrating, to say the least.

All this was on her mind as she walked to Frances street one morning, when a strange and familiar sensation came upon her. She felt a prickle on her skin, and for a moment, a happy feeling of excitement rose up at the thought that Mr. Thornton was nearby and watching her, just as had occurred that day in the cemetery. She stopped and turned her head about, wondering where he might be, but she did not see him. Disappointed, she went on her way, reasoning to herself that she had only felt that brief presentiment because she had been thinking of him and hoping for a moment they might cross paths again. The feeling was soon forgotten in the course of the day.

Her disappointment did not continue into the night, for when she returned home, her father informed her that Mr. Thornton would be coming for tea that evening. That information, as well as a newly-arrived letter from Frederick, was more than enough to bring a smile to her face, although she tried to suppress her enthusiasm in front of her father. But it could not be denied that she took especial care to look presentable before Mr. Thornton arrived.

Later, while her father once again monopolized Mr. Thornton's attention, she sourly wondered why she had bothered. They had greeted each other in a friendly manner, and he did make some efforts to speak to her, but Mr. Hale was too eager from the first to engage with his friend. So for the first part of Mr. Thornton's visit, Margaret sat quietly in an attempt to remain understanding of her father's situation. But all the while, she secretly hoped that Mr. Thornton would look her way more.

Finally, Mr. Hale did mention a subject in which she was acutely interested. "We received another letter from Frederick today, you should be interested to know. I think it gave Margaret some happiness to see it."

Mr. Thornton turned to her as she lifted her eyes. At last he was given an opening to speak to her, and he was quick to direct his words to her before her father could answer. "I am glad to hear it. Is he a faithful correspondent?"

His deliberate action to include her gratified her, and she smiled as she replied. "He has generally been steady in his letters, but they never used to come so closely together. Of course, the letter he wrote a few weeks ago was rather short and written only to inform us of his safe arrival in Spain."

He nodded. He remembered the relief in Mr. Hale's face when he informed him that Frederick had reached his destination without any trouble. "Will he continue to write more often, do you think?"

She shrugged. "I am not certain. It could only be that the novelty of seeing us makes him more dutiful, and he may resume his former routine once things are more firmly settled."

"But Margaret, I'm sure, hopes that Frederick writes more frequently," Mr. Hale said kindly. "It had been so long since they had seen each other that Fred hardly knew her at first. Perhaps he will wish to know his sister better now that he has seen her again."

Mr. Thornton could hardly imagine anyone not wishing to know Margaret, and he hoped for her sake that Frederick Hale would not be remiss in writing to her. She had few enough friends in Milton, and she must be lonely. In the sparing visits he had made to the Higginses's home, he had heard of Mary's adoration of Margaret, but their association seemed more akin to a teacher and his student. It hardly amounted to an equal friendship. He wondered for a moment how Margaret bore the lack of female companionship; she had a cousin near her age with whom she had passed her youth, but here there was hardly anybody. He was ashamed that his own sister took so little trouble to pay her any attentions, although he reminded himself that there was little that the two had in common. What little Fanny did to associate with Margaret was likely the most either could wish for.

Still, his heart ached to know what a solitary life she led, so in contrast to the vibrancy she was capable of. Did she mourn the lack of friends? Surely she must feel some frustration at her isolated situation. All this passed through his mind as Mr. Hale continued.

"Of course, he has many things to write which will be of great interest to Margaret in the coming months, so she will surely write back quickly to hear of it."

"Oh?" Mr. Thornton inquired, his interest piqued.

Margaret spoke up to explain. "Frederick will be married soon, and my father must mean that I wish to hear of all the preparations."

He sat back in comprehension. It was not terribly surprising that Frederick Hale had not spoken of a woman in their brief time together. Not only was conversation naturally strained between them, the young man had been more interested in prying into _his_ love affairs, if such a phrase could be used.

"But I would rather wish to hear more of Dolores herself," Margaret went on. "I could do very well without the rest; I think I had enough of that from Edith to last a lifetime. I was exhausted for days after the business of her wedding. I cannot say that I am interested in the details, even if Frederick chooses to write about them."

"Likely he cares little for those details himself," Mr. Thornton quipped. "So you may be spared yet."

"Perhaps," she bit back a laugh. "He promises in this letter that Dolores wishes to write to me, so I might not escape them entirely if she is anything like my cousin. But I am looking forward to hearing from her. I am very curious about her; Fred told us so little. At present she is still a stranger to me."

"It is strange to think that what gives us the most hope for the future should be named Dolores," Mr. Hale mused quietly.

"And yet Fred was happiest when speaking of her, Father, despite her name," Margaret replied with a smile, to which he inclined his head in acquiescence.

"I suppose she cannot be blamed for her name any more than we can for ours," Mr. Thornton speculated.

"Well, her mother was a Spaniard," Mr. Hale replied, "and that must account for it, as well as her religion. But it is a soft and pretty name, for all that, and Frederick does not seem to mind it."

Mr. Thornton thought that to any man in love, the name of his beloved would never be a source of sorrow, and he looked at Margaret. She was aptly named, in his opinion, for a lovely and precious gem she certainly was. But this tender thought could be too easily betrayed by his face, and he grasped at another topic before he became too sentimental.

"Do you think it at all possible that you might meet her one day?"

Margaret was taken aback. "Well, Fred can hardly bring her to England."

He was quick to reply. "I meant to ask if you would go to Spain some day. Then she would not be such a stranger to you."

She nodded her head; of course he would not suggest that Frederick return. "I should hope so. Spain is not so very far, and I would not like to lose hope that I will see my brother again. Papa," she turned to her father, "certainly we must go and see them."

Her father adamantly shook his head. "If you wish it, Margaret, then yes, you must go. But I will stay here. It would seem so unkind to your mother to go without her. You must go and come back with a favorable report of my Spanish daughter."

"I won't go without you," she persisted stubbornly. "Who would care for you while I am gone?"

He cocked his head at her. "Who is taking care of whom, I would like to know? But if you went, perhaps I could persuade Mr. Thornton to take on double lessons," he said with a nod to Mr. Thornton. "We could work up the classics famously, and if you liked, you could go on to see Edith at Corfu."

Dismayed that he would send her off so easily, and a little jealous at the thought of her father spending so much time with Mr. Thornton, she said haltingly, "I still would not feel at ease going without you. And as for going on to Corfu, that must be out of the question. By the time Frederick is married, Edith will probably be gone from Corfu. She writes that they will all be back in Harley street by February, if not earlier."

"Do you not have a desire to travel, Miss Hale?" Mr. Thornton asked, his eyes fixed on her in that piercing way.

She was surprised by the question. "I . . ." she took a moment to gather her thoughts. "I would like to see more of the world. My objection just now was that I do not wish to go alone."

"Margaret has not had much opportunity to travel anywhere, I'm afraid," Mr. Hale said quietly.

Margaret bit the inside of her lip at her father's comment. Normally she did not mind her circumstances, and she had felt herself quite fortunate to live as she did; she usually fought back any envious feelings of her aunt and cousin with success. But her father speaking in such a way, as though she were an object to be pitied, sparked a resentful twinge that silenced her. Moreover, she was annoyed at his habit of speaking of her as though she were not in the room. He often did so, and she normally bore it with equanimity, but when it was evident Mr. Thornton would speak directly to her, she did not appreciate her father's officiousness at speaking for her.

Mr. Thornton caught a flash in her eyes that hinted at some unease, and he felt compelled to sympathize with her. "I am not an experienced traveler myself, so I can understand your desire to see the world," he said in a compassionate tone, keeping his eyes trained on her.

She looked up at him in confusion. "Are you not? I would have thought you have gone many places."

He was tempted to grin at her assumption, but only smiled. "My early life was not conducive to travel, and I am far too occupied with my business to be willing to leave it for very long without great inducement. I _have_ journeyed to Le Havre on occasion, but that has been solely for business. Traveling for its own sake has not been a priority."

"At least you probably enjoyed your journeys to France?" she inquired.

A little shame-facedly, he admitted, "I cannot say I did. I am too impatient to enjoy a journey when my purpose is only to reach my destination. I have not made much notice of my surroundings along the way. But I will grant that my own desires on this score have begun to change, and I too have felt a wish to see more of the world."

She smiled, a little relieved that a man of such experience would feel a similar deficiency to her, and she felt some pleasure at his efforts to commiserate with her. She felt all the kindness of his manner as he acknowledged her father's words but still found a way to ease her unhappiness. Sharing a common wish with him helped her feel less ignorant by comparison.

He leaned toward her a little with his next question. "Where would you like to go, if you had the choice?"

Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but in an overwhelmed stupor. There were too many places to name, after all, and she found it difficult to choose. She took a deep breath and she shook her head in thought, trying to find somewhere to begin. "Well, Spain, of course," she started tentatively.

"Of course," he murmured in encouragement.

"The south of France, I think," her eyes danced around the room as though she looked at a map of the world. "But not for very long; I am not sure I could stand the heat. But it would be something to see the sea there. The deserts of Africa, the Alps, the Black Forest . . . if I felt especially adventurous, I would want to go to India."

"It is very hot there, as well," he pointed out with an amused smile.

Her shoulders shook slightly at the gentle dig. "You are right. Perhaps I should try for a more temperate climate. Although I would be disappointed at not seeing the elephants and tigers."

"That would be a great loss," he agreed.

"And you?" she turned the question around. "Where would you go?"

He _was_ startled, but only because he truly had not given the matter any serious thought. He had imagined to himself not too long ago walking the greenery of the New Forest with her, but he could not say so. As for where he would choose to go in the world, he bent his head in thought.

"I suppose I would be most interested in seeing ancient ruins, relics of the past great civilizations. Rome, Athens . . ." he trailed off as another thought occurred to him. "I would also be interested in seeing America. Seeing the cities there, studying the industry and the people." He looked over to see a pensive look upon her face.

"Even if you travel for pleasure, you still speak of studying?" she pointed out with a smile.

"What is travel but study, whether it be of nature or people?" he replied. "It is a way to broaden your mind, no matter your interest."

"True," she inclined her head. "And you wish to study Americans?"

He paused. "Whatever else you can say about them, they are a people of great invention and innovation. They have a ceaseless energy and are continually striving and working for improvement in a way no other people does."

"Much like you," she observed, bringing his head around swiftly. She blushed under his scrutiny, and went on with averted eyes. "I mean to say that you are a man of action and exertion. The attributes you spoke of could very easily describe you in your endeavors."

She spoke in a complimentary fashion, but he was unsure if he should thank her, embarrassed as she seemed for speaking so openly of her observations of his character. He was happy that she spoke in such an approving way of his habits, when barely a year before she had decried the hurried pace of the north and its inhabitants.

She shook herself out of her embarrassment and brought her head up. "But it is amusing that though we both desire to travel, I am for the country and you are for the city."

He breathed a small laugh, seeing the humor easily, as she had spoken not to criticize. "You would not wish to see the cities of those far-off places?"

"I would," she replied in a measured voice, "but they do not interest me as the beauties of nature do. I do not think I could be inspired by a cobbled road as I would be by high-reaching mountains."

He nodded slowly. "I suppose I am interested chiefly in what mankind has done with what they have been given. As I said, I have never been interested in my surroundings in the journeys I have taken. But perhaps I have been short-sighted. I have not yet learned to appreciate nature as some have."

"Perhaps you should try," she suggested.

"Perhaps you should instruct me," he replied with little thought. As soon as the words left his lips, however, he realized that, though the words themselves had been innocuous enough, he had laced them with a provocative tone that implied he wished for a different kind of instruction. Completely by surprise, he had flirted with her, and he was gripped by a sudden fear that she would be scandalized. Judging by her silent intake of breath, she had not missed the deeper shade in his voice. He held his breath as he tried to read her reaction in her widened eyes.

She was astonished at his thoughtless boldness, but her breath was not suspended in the way his was. Instead it came in short bursts as he held her gaze, and she tried to come up with an appropriate reply. But what could she say? If she had been the kind of coquettish girl Edith had been, she would find a way to giggle and laugh and provoke her admirer into further boldness and praise, but she felt far too much to make light of his words. Her chest coiled tightly and she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

A slight cough relieved her of the responsibility to respond, as Mr. Hale discreetly reminded them they were not alone, and she dropped her head immediately. He turned away from her reluctantly, but he must face her father, who was looking at him with a cocked eyebrow and clear question in his face. A little ashamed, he realized that if Margaret and he were going to continue in such a fashion, he did his friend a disservice by not speaking openly to him. Undoubtedly this was not the moment to do so, but he would need a private audience with Mr. Hale, and soon.

* * *

 **A/N:** For anybody unaware, the name Dolores in Spanish means "sorrows", shortened from _La Virgin Maria de los Dolores,_ "Virgin Mary of Sorrows" or "Our Lady of Sorrows". This is a little snippet that is actually from the book, when Mr. Hale mentions her name and its Spanish origins. And I've used the meaning of Margaret's name in another chapter in this story, but Mr. Bell also uses it in the book, calling her a Pearl. My own name is a diminutive form of Margaret, so I like having that in common with her and thinking of myself as a jewel. ;) So just a little explanation for the names, in case you were wondering about that. I've also given a little of my personality to Mr. Thornton in this chapter, because I am an impatient traveler; when I have a destination to reach, I go-go-go until I get there and I don't like stopping along the way. While I don't often try to insert my own characteristics into fictional characters (especially when they don't technically belong to me), I thought mayyyyyybe in this instance it wouldn't be too out-of-character for him.


	16. Confession and Contemplation

If Margaret was hoping to avoid her father the following morning, it was a vain hope. She was not so naïve to believe he would not have questions after the previous evening, but she dreaded an interrogation. It had been far more comfortable to explore her newfound feelings without his scrutiny. His former oblivion to her developing relationship with Mr. Thornton had been a blessing in that way. However, that must no longer be the case, as she had so blatantly given herself away. And so had Mr. Thornton, she delightedly hoped to herself.

To have more security in his continued affection was a boon, and she had smiled herself to sleep in the remembrance of his evocative tone, as well as his captivating eyes that never failed to draw her in. Still, the bolstering effect he had given to her uncertainty had not been enough to withstand her father at the time, so after Mr. Thornton's departure, she had fled to her room with scarcely a word.

But she could not long stay away from her father, now that day had come, and she fought her rising nerves as she walked toward the stairs. She expected that he would question her as they broke their fast together, so she was surprised to hear his voice call her from the drawing room. She approached the doorway with more than a little trepidation. There her father sat, a book in his hands, in the act of removing his spectacles. He did not need to speak aloud his invitation that she join him. She entered the room and took a seat, feeling rather like a convict awaiting judgment.

For some long minutes, he only looked at her, his face showing little of his thoughts. But he looked more compassionate than stern, and this gave Margaret some small relief. But as long as he was silent, she remained apprehensive and she could not hold his gaze for very long.

"Margaret," he finally spoke tentatively. "I feel unsure if I should ask you this, but . . ." he trailed off for a moment, and she was struck by the realization that he was nervous about this conversation, as well. "Is there anything I should be aware of – something between you and Mr. Thornton?"

She pressed her lips together. Now it was begun, there was no turning back. But before she could answer, he spoke again.

"That is, of course I noticed the way you spoke to each other last night. I have seen you become more friendly together, and Mr. Bell told me of his suspicions -"

"Mr. Bell?" she broke in, surprised. "Did Mr. Bell think -"

With a pointed look, he stopped her mid-speech. "Yes, and it seems his suspicions were accurate, even if I gave them no credence at the time. But I can no longer ignore what is clearly in front of me." He paused. "I would rather hear it from your own lips, though, my dear."

He was obviously concerned, but Margaret felt his gentle kindness, lessening her fear and loosening her tongue. Still she was meek as she asked, "Do you mind it, Father?"

He looked astonished for a moment, then said, "I am not sure of what there is to know as yet, Margaret, or to mind."

She blushed at the mild remonstrance. "I have nothing to declare as yet," she said hesitantly. "There is something begun, I feel, but no words have been said between us." At least in this instance, no words had been exchanged, but she thought it prudent to omit the events prior to Fred's appearance in Milton. "I have nothing of special note to inform you of. If Mr. Thornton is considering me, he has not told me so."

"But . . ." he still spoke haltingly, entirely unsure of how to proceed. He had never been in this position, after all, and he knew only that he must proceed delicately. "You do wish him to?"

A loving compassion overtook her as she recognized how carefully he was trying not to offend her. She smiled shyly and nodded her head. "Yes, I do. I . . . admire him a great deal, and I think that he cares for me."

"As to that, I do not think you should be in doubt," Mr. Hale spoke a little more confidently. "Mr. Thornton is not a man to trifle with anyone, and he would never behave in such a way unless his feelings were truly engaged."

"He did not say anything so terribly forward," Margaret demurred.

"But the manner he spoke in was suggestive, and your behavior was in accord with his."

"Was I very improper?" she asked, a little indignant that he might disapprove of her conduct.

"No, not improper, I would not say that. But it was surprising, almost shocking, to me to be witness to it." A deep crimson appeared in her cheeks that her father should have been present during such a moment. "But I suppose that is because I had resisted the idea that you could feel anything for Mr. Thornton."

"So you do not approve, then?" she asked anxiously.

"It is not that, my dear," he reached out and patted her hand. "How could I disapprove when I think so highly of him myself? He is a true friend, and a worthy man. But you are my child, and I have looked at you thus all my life. Not only that, it is not so long ago that you did not like him. And I told Bell as much when he suggested the idea. Now I feel foolish that he saw it and I could not."

She took his hand in hers. His wary way of speaking urged her to be more open and share more than made her comfortable, and she was quick to assure him. "Please do not feel that way. This has been such a new experience for me that I have not known how to act. I never studied the art of flirting and would never have known how to be open with my feelings unless they appeared by accident. In some ways, it has been a shock to me, as well."

A little pride shone in his eyes as he replied, "And I am glad you did not learn to be a coquette. It would have never been in your nature, and I should have been sorry to think you regarded love so lightly." She pressed his hand fervently, reassured by his pride in her. She was further reassured, though he did not know it, by his assertion about Mr. Thornton's character and that he would not trifle with her. Neither of them were of that persuasion, she realized; where they felt, they felt deeply. No wonder she had never been in love before, or anything near to it. No man she had met before Mr. Thornton could match her in depth of feeling. And, despite her initial discomfort with such unfamiliar feelings, she now knew she never would have been satisfied with the love of a man who did not feel passionately and intensely.

"But how long have you felt this way, Margaret? When did your feelings change?" her father interrupted her musings.

She hesitated before answering, "I must admit I hardly know. I did believe for so long that I disliked him, but perhaps I was mistaken even then. But I knew for certain I thought of him differently when he helped Fred."

All at once, Mr. Hale's countenance paled and he gripped her hand. Not one for forceful gestures, the strength of his hold caught her off-guard. "Is this why you have changed your mind about him, Margaret?" he asked, his voice filled with concern. "Because he helped Fred?"

"Well," she began, but he did not let her finish.

"My child, it is natural to feel gratitude for all that Mr. Thornton did for our family, but I would never want you to feel coerced into encouraging a man simply because of a service he rendered. You spoke of admiring him, but you must not continue in this way if you do not truly care for him. If this is why you allow his attentions, I ask you to reconsider. You should not feel an obligation because of his actions."

Margaret's alarm at the warning in his voice gave way quickly to understanding, and she sought to soothe him. "No, Father, that is not why I am allowing Mr. Thornton's attentions. I can understand why you would wonder such a thing, and I am grateful that you do not wish a relationship of unequal affection for me, but I assure you, I feel no obligation. The timing, I admit, is dubious, but it was not Mr. Thornton's assistance that brought about these feelings. I think it more likely that the reverse is true."

His tight grasp on her hand had loosened, and she squeezed it one final time. "I do admire him, but that is not all I feel. I care for him, truly. He has . . ." she fought back yet another blush; she had never spoken so frankly to her father. "He has grown very dear to me."

Mr. Hale, though he had prepared himself as best he could for this conversation, was still in an odd frame of mind. He did not doubt his daughter's sincerity, and he knew that if Thornton was similarly committed in feeling, there would be many things to discuss with him. But to hear it said and to know for certain that a relationship between the pair was actual fact – it took some getting used to. He couldn't help wondering how long he would require to sort it out in his mind before it stopped seeming so unbelievable.

He spoke slowly. "Should I expect, then, for him to apply to me for my permission soon?"

Her eyes flew wide open at the leap in his logic. "I . . . I do not know. I said before that we have not spoken of anything to each other, not even of a courtship. He . . . I do not know what he is thinking, not really."

He regarded her patiently. "Well, we do know for certain that he is an honorable man, and I could tell last night by the way he looked at me that he knew he must speak with me. He is not a secretive fellow, and he would feel bound to inform me of his intentions."

She nodded, biting the inside of her lip.

"And when he does, I will want to know your feelings on the matter." She looked up in surprise; had the purpose of this conference not been to explain exactly that? "That is, on the question of marriage. It would be wise to take some time, my dear, to consider what sort of future you want, and you must do so seriously. It is not a state to be entered into lightly. You must understand that accepting him would mean accepting Milton as your permanent home, that his life would become yours."

This was something that she had thought about, of course, but she knew that he was right in asking her to consider it more seriously. Mr. Thornton put a great deal of himself into his work, and while she knew he would make a place for her, she also needed to know how she would fit into the position of a master's wife.

* * *

 _Dear Edith,_

 _I hope that your preparations are well in hand for leaving Corfu. It is strange to think of your returning to Harley Street, when I cannot imagine that you ever left it at all. Have we really been apart so long? But it is a comfort to think of you being closer at hand, and I do look forward to seeing you at the very first opportunity possible. I trust that you have not forgotten our English weather; to come back in the late autumn or winter must be a great shock when you have become accustomed to the hotter climate of Greece._

Margaret's pen hovered over the paper once more, and she was frustrated that after several days she still did not know how to compose a letter beyond the merest pleasantries. Normally the words flowed rapidly from her, especially when she wrote to Edith, but now she was entirely perplexed as to the framing of her feelings and questions.

It was now, during this time of deep reflection, that Margaret realized how much she longed for a fellow woman's sympathy. She had revealed a great deal to her father, but still he was a man, and his awkward way of changing the subject once their discussion of Mr. Thornton was over proved that he could never be prevailed on to talk in such a way again. Not that she would have felt at ease attempting another similar conversation with him in the future.

Of course Edith had been the first to come to mind, as they had always confided in each other in their youth, but Margaret felt awkward disclosing so much that would shock her. And she did not think that Edith, no matter her unknown opinions on a possible match between Margaret and Mr. Thornton, would have a great deal of practical advice to offer. Margaret knew little of Edith and Captain Lennox's marriage, but she supposed that they did not often find themselves in opposition. Edith, while accustomed to her own way, had spent the whole of her courtship learning how to be accommodating to Captain Lennox, as instructed by her mother. And even then, she had not had to change very much, for Captain Lennox himself was not unyielding, and they both acquiesced to the other quickly because their lives of relative ease had made serious disagreement rare. True opposition where one felt deeply in the right was not in Edith's sphere of experience, and she would not understand Margaret's predicament.

As her father had suggested, she had given more serious consideration to a future with Mr. Thornton, and so far had hit upon only one possible obstacle, though it was not insignificant. From the beginning of her arrival in Milton, Margaret had contended against Mr. Thornton when it came to his business. Instead, she had been influenced by Nicholas and those who worked alongside him. Of course, her perception of Mr. Thornton's role as a master had changed, for if she still thought him cruel, she never would have sent Nicholas to him. But still she knew that they must disagree, and in what ways would they resolve differences? Mr. Thornton had proved himself to be not as inflexible as she had once taken him for, but it was his responsibility to be firm when it came to the mill. If she expressed a dissenting view, would he pay her any mind or would he cast her opinions aside, attributing her opposition to her ignorance and foreign upbringing? She knew that she could not bear such a life.

Such was the conundrum she found herself in, and she did not like relying only on her own counsel. But her pen had hesitated so many times writing to Edith, for her cousin could never comprehend such circumstances. Who else could she speak to, though? Mary Higgins, though not a child, was a young girl, and they were hardly confidants, anyway. She rarely wrote to her Aunt Shaw, and she was too afraid of that woman's possible response to the news that she was being courted by a manufacturer to apply to her. Her advice would undoubtedly be a vociferous urging to cut off all ties with Mr. Thornton. Dixon, of course, was completely out of the question, for she could be just as snobbish as Aunt Shaw in her way. The only other women she had any passing familiarity with were Mrs. and Miss Thornton, and she certainly would not discuss her relationship with Mr. Thornton with his own family!

Besides, even if she did overcome the mortification it would cause to speak to his mother about her concerns, Mrs. Thornton would likely be incensed that she would dare questioning Mr. Thornton and remind her that it was a woman's duty to give unfailing support to her husband. Support, Margaret was willing to give, even if they disagreed, but she also hoped that he would grant her the respect to listen to her.

Her mind was quite split between these questions and derisive chiding of herself _for_ those very questions. She knew her feelings and what future they would choose; surely if she loved him, everything would sort itself out. What was the point of speculation on the unknown when she felt such an irresistible pull to him? Her feelings for him must be answer enough.

Finally throwing her pen down in an unladylike huff, she sat back in silent self-reproach. He had not asked her any question _for_ her to answer, so to what purpose did she torture herself with wondering? But she must know her answer before he asked, mustn't she? Still sighing at the spiraling of her thoughts in this never-ending circle, she stood to open a drawer and pull out once more the gloves she had not returned. In her moments of abstraction, somehow these seemingly inconsequential items brought her some comfort, as they had led her to a powerful answer once before.

A soft knock at her door caused a flurry of movement, as she scrambled to replace the gloves and close the drawer without making too much noise. She didn't like the idea of explaining herself to Dixon. But to her surprise, it was her father's voice that spoke her name. She swiftly opened the door.

He gave her a small smile, not seeming to notice the guilty way she looked behind her, as though the gloves would somehow reappear in a bid to embarrass her. "How is your letter coming along?" he inquired innocently.

Once again, she found herself in a curious situation. She did not wish to lie, but to confess the truth of her obstacle in writing to Edith would lead to another awkward conversation with him. "I have not quite finished it yet," she managed.

"Oh, I am sorry for interrupting you, then. Should I leave you to do so?"

"No, no," she replied hurriedly. "That is not necessary. Was there something you needed?"

He shook his head, absently rubbing at the back of his neck. "No, I merely wondered if you planned to visit Mary Higgins today. You have not gone for a few days, and I hoped you had not abandoned helping her."

She latched on to his suggestion eagerly. As much as she required time to ponder on recent developments, she knew that hiding away in her room for much longer would only make her worries increase. Visiting Mary and the children would be a worthy way to bend her mind away from herself for a time, and she had no more desire to neglect them than it seemed her father did. "Yes, of course I will go and see Mary. She might be wondering if I have been carried off!"

Her feeble attempt at a joke was only acknowledged by a quick up-tick of his mouth, and he said, "Well, then, you should not delay your going. The weather is getting colder and I would not want you to stay alone too late."

For a moment, Margaret had the faintest suspicion that he was trying to usher her out of the house, but she dismissed that idea just as abruptly. What a notion! "Thank you for the reminder, Father. I shall leave presently."

He began to turn away, nodding slightly in silent approval, when she added, "Perhaps one day soon we might visit together, some evening after Nicholas is returned from work. I'm sure he would enjoy seeing you."

Mr. Hale turned back, his brows lifted. "Of-of course," he stuttered, and Margaret now truly wondered if her supposition was correct. He seemed in a hurry to conclude their short conversation, but was determined not say so. She was curious, but his apparent discomfort moved her to pity, and she did not inquire what could require such strange behavior.

"But some other day, of course," she simply said, giving him a smile. "I will ask Mary if there is a suitable evening we might call on them."

He nodded distractedly. "That sounds agreeable, my dear."

Another short pause, then he turned away again, leaving her more confused. She shook her head and began gathering her things. She did look forward to these visits now, and helping the children always gave her a satisfied feeling of happiness. She idly wondered if that strange feeling of being watched would come upon her with her mind so consumed by Mr. Thornton, as it had again only the day before as she attended to some errands for Dixon. She rather hoped not, as it had been accompanied that time by an uneasy twinge that was more difficult to shake off. But this she attributed to her serious contemplations and her inability to determine what her future might be.

She stopped only to bid her father farewell, and then was on her way.


	17. A Growing Sense

Mr. Hale breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the front door shut behind Margaret. She had not left the house the past three days except for the occasional commission for Dixon, and he did not want any uncomfortable situations caused by her continued presence. As long as she was safely ensconced in her room, occupied by letters, perhaps it would have been well, but he was glad she had been so agreeable as to leave the house altogether. He did wonder if he had acted too forcibly by suggesting she visit Mary Higgins, for he thought he saw her eyes narrow curiously at him at one point, but since she did not say anything, he supposed it was only his imagination. Now all was safe and he could expect his visitor without fearing that Margaret would accidentally intrude.

The very day of his revealing conversation with Margaret, he had received a note from Mr. Thornton, requesting a private audience with him at his earliest convenience. No stranger to Mr. Thornton's correspondence, he could not help noticing the formal terseness of the request, and he felt sure of the subject that Mr. Thornton would wish to discuss. Margaret was often from home in the middle of the day, so he had responded quickly. Unfortunately, it had taken an exchange of a few more short notes to choose a day, for Mr. Thornton's time, especially during the day, was increasingly accounted for. But, although he was not able to come in person immediately, the prompt replies Mr. Hale received were proof of his sincere desire to come.

As he expected, Mr. Thornton was prompt in his arrival. A man normally disposed to confidence and utter control, he looked much the same as ever, if a little stiff. They shook hands cordially and firmly, but once he was seated, Mr. Hale did notice a slight tremble in the man's hands. His otherwise rigid posture was undermined by the fidget of his fingers against his leg.

Perhaps some fathers would have been amused by such behavior from their daughter's potential suitor. They might have increased the suitor's unease by keeping silent, or by speaking relentlessly of unrelated matters, torturing the poor young man until he could stand no more. Mr. Hale was not of such a disposition, and furthermore, he could not imagine tormenting his friend in such a way by deliberately making him more uncomfortable than he already was. It was not in his nature to be forward in awkward situations, but his habitual kindness informed him that it was necessary in this circumstance.

"I do not think I am wrong in guessing your reason for wanting to see me, John," he broke the tense silence. "You wish to speak to me about Margaret."

Mr. Thornton's posture did not change greatly, but he did betray some relief by exhaling audibly through his nostrils before nodding shortly. "Yes. I shouldn't wonder at your knowing my purpose in coming."

Mr. Hale let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "It has taken me some time to become aware of it, all the same, if I am to judge from Margaret's account."

At once Mr. Thornton leaned forward eagerly. "You spoke to Miss Hale? About -" he stopped abruptly and forced himself to sit up straight. The last thing he wanted to do was act like an anxious schoolboy. But despite his forced control, he could not stop being curious. "What did she say?"

Now Mr. Hale _was_ truly amused. To see Mr. Thornton in such an eager and nervous state, to wit, to be so completely unlike himself, did lend some humor to the entire situation. He had certainly never witnessed anything like it in his friend, and he had to smother the laugh that accompanied his smile.

"I do not mind telling you something of our conversation, but first I would like to hear what you have to say," he replied.

Once again, Mr. Thornton nodded. It was a reasonable request, and it would not do to delay the speeches he had rehearsed to himself. He swallowed thickly. "As you say, you have seen that my . . . behavior toward Miss Hale has changed. I should perhaps have approached you long before now, but I did not want to do so before I had more evidence that my suit was not hopeless."

"And Margaret has been encouraging in that regard?" Mr. Hale prompted gently.

For a moment, Mr. Thornton hesitated, for he did not want to give the impression that Margaret's behavior had been at all inappropriate. "I believe so. We resolved some time ago that we would try our hand at friendship, and that has been a success so far."

"I was glad to see it," Mr. Hale added. "You both were at odds with each other for so long, it has made for a much more comfortable existence seeing you getting along so much better."

"Yes," he agreed, wishing for a glass of something to soothe his dry throat. Declaring his intentions was not an easy task, even to a gentle and compassionate man such as Mr. Hale. "Yes, it has been a welcome change. But . . ." he took a deep breath, "but it has been a long time since my feelings towards Miss Hale have been deeper, more tender. Much as I am happy that we have not failed in our efforts to be friends, I cannot be satisfied with mere friendship." Mr. Hale raised an eyebrow at this, and he rushed on. "That is, if friendship is all Miss Hale can ever feel for me, I suppose I must be satisfied. But I believe she begins to returns my affections, and so that brings me here today."

"To request my permission?"

"To declare my intentions," he clarified. "I have not asked her -" he stopped short, revising his words rapidly so he would not tell a falsehood. "I have not spoken to her of my feelings since we began to get on, but I do desire that we proceed more openly, and for there to be no mistake regarding my wishes."

"And what precisely are your wishes?"

"I wish for Miss Hale to be my wife," he stated immediately, looking Mr. Hale straight in the eye. "I wish to court her with the understanding that such is my goal." There. He had said it.

Mr. Hale did not respond quickly, but regarded him with a steady eye. Mr. Thornton told himself that now was not a time to look away. He had finally spoken his desires; let the consequences be what they may.

Finally Mr. Hale said, "You are very sure that you want Margaret as your wife. How long have you felt this way?"

An unexpected question, but he would not cower. "Many months."

Mr. Hale's eyebrows shot up, and had he not been seated, he would have stumbled. "Months?" he repeated in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Then why . . ." Mr. Hale began, his thoughts all askew, "why have you taken so long to declare yourself?"

He breathed in deeply. "You said yourself that Miss Hale and I did not begin on the best terms, and it has taken a long time to overcome those first impressions and agree to friendship at all. But while we have improved our understanding of each other, I do not know if her feelings are equal to mine. We have had little time together and I have had to proceed slower than I would like. I do think I have reason to hope, but she has not said anything, any more than I have."

Mr. Hale held his chin in his hands. Never had he suspected that Mr. Thornton's attachment to Margaret was of such long standing. Although it did cast certain of his actions in a new light. "Is it because of Margaret that you assisted us in getting Fred out of Milton? I had not thought you felt this way toward her then, but if you have cared for her many months, then -"

He interrupted Mr. Hale stiffly. "I did not help your family to make Miss Hale obliged to me. I would never force myself upon her in such a way. But," he relaxed slightly, "I will not deny that she was my primary inducement. I would have gladly been of service to you, but there was no risk I would not take on if doing so would help her."

"You care for her a great deal," Mr. Hale observed, amazed at the revelation of Mr. Thornton's true motives.

"I love her."

The hand that had been rubbing against his mouth dropped abruptly into Mr. Hale's lap at this determined statement. He had no ready response to such a bald declaration, and he had not realized until now that he had avoided using that very phrase, substituting easier words such as "feelings" and "affection". Though he did not doubt Mr. Thornton's sincerity, to hear those words spoken so directly made him distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes, of course," he muttered, not wanting to meet his friend in the eye. It was curious, however, that Mr. Thornton would proceed so slowly when he decidedly knew his feelings.

"I must admit," he broke the brief silence, "to some confusion." Mr. Thornton cocked his head in question. "I mean, John, that you are a decisive man, one who does not shy away from what he wants. I understand why you have not spoken to me about Margaret before, but if your wish is to marry her, why delay that question? It is not like you to be indirect."

Mr. Thornton visibly adjusted in his seat as he considered Mr. Hale's words. "I _am_ endeavoring to be more direct; that is my purpose in coming here. But I do not ask for her hand now because I simply do not want to act rashly."

"But if your feelings have been so long engaged, is it really rash for you to make such an offer?" Even as he spoke the words, Mr. Hale wondered why he was making this argument. It was not as though he was in a frame of mind to rush Margaret out of his home. In fact, the very idea of it brought him little pleasure. But his wish to know more of the entire situation overrode any unpleasant consequences that might derive from it.

"At this stage of our association," Mr. Thornton replied with a subdued smile, "it perhaps would be, as we still have not spoken to each other openly of what we feel . . . or might feel," he added. He could not tell Mr. Hale that he once _had_ acted rashly with regard to Margaret, and the experience had cut him more deeply than any hardship he had previously suffered. "It is not unheard of for me to act without thought, but such behavior usually stems from great provocation." Such as a brave woman risking her life to protect him from an angry mob. "I do not wish to push her away by acting too hastily."

"I see." Mr. Hale privately reflected that it was not likely that haste on Mr. Thornton's part should push Margaret away, but he remained silent on that point. He was in no hurry to be rid of Margaret, and he would say no more that could encourage them to think he was.

Another silence stretched out before them, but Mr. Thornton was the first to break it now. "You have given me no answer, sir," he said stiffly, a little trepidation creeping into his voice. "You have asked me your questions, but you have not told me what you think, nor if you would give your permission."

Startled, Mr. Hale instinctively replied, "Well, of course you have my permission, John!" At once, Mr. Thornton's whole countenance lightened. "Forgive me," Mr. Hale continued in a milder tone, "I had not meant to make you doubt. But I have been so surprised by the situation that I have had many questions that needed attending to. I had not realized that I was keeping you in suspense."

Mr. Thornton nodded and audibly sighed, the tense hold he had on his shoulders relaxed, and a pleased smile broke forth in his face. "Thank you," he breathed out, clearly relieved.

He looked on the verge of saying more, but Mr. Hale waved him off lightly, "Not at all, not at all." He was not a man used to such intensity, and to have experienced two very awkward and personal interviews in the course of a few days had tired him of the whole affair. As far as he was concerned, they need never speak in such a manner ever again.

* * *

Margaret slowed her steps as she neared home, not wishing to arrive out of breath or in any state of agitation. She had no wish to alarm her father, nor arouse Dixon's questions. But it took considerable determination to steady her feet and assume a calm visage, for she was truly uneasy.

Her visit to the Higginses's home had been nothing out of the ordinary, amusing the children and searching for topics to discuss with Mary. True, conversation between them was more difficult today and she felt she had scraped the bottom of the barrel coming up with anything to say, but that had only been because she spent so much of her time these days pondering a subject that she would not bring up to Mary. How would the girl react to the revelation that Margaret and Mr. Thornton were on a more intimate footing? How, indeed, would her father respond? Margaret was hesitant to find out.

So conversing had been more laborious, and in her efforts to find _something_ to say, Margaret had even mentioned off-handedly that strange feeling of being watched she had experienced. She did not expect to excite any great feeling in Mary by bringing it up, so she had been surprised by the frightened response.

"Are you in some danger, Miss?" Mary had exclaimed, gripping her hand suddenly and fiercely.

"No, of course not!" Margaret replied with some amusement. "It is not unusual to imagine that someone is near when you are thinking of them." This veered too closely to revealing Mr. Thornton, though, and she spoke dismissively to soothe Mary's sudden fear. "Truly, Mary, there is nothing to alarm. It is only my mind playing tricks, I think. I have had a great deal to think about lately; that is all."

Mary still looked askance at her for a few more minutes, but she said nothing else, and by the time Margaret left, seemed to resume her usual spirits.

It was fortunate, Margaret thought as she neared her door, that she had treated the subject so lightly in front of Mary, for who knew how panicked she would have been if Margaret had arrived at their home in the state she now was in? Soon after leaving, Margaret had felt the old prickle climb up her spine, and as she looked around, seeing nobody in the crowd that she recognized, she began to think that perhaps it was not her imagination any more. She walked faster, weaving in and out of people in the streets, and the nagging, crawling feeling only grew stronger. She was certain that Mr. Thornton would not provoke such foreboding feelings, whether in her thoughts or in person, and the thought that a stranger was dogging her footsteps brought on a clenching in her chest that refused to be dislodged.

Eventually, after perhaps a quarter of a mile, some tension in her body eased, and she felt that perhaps the unknown presence had taken another path at last, but she could not return her mind to a sense of tranquility. She did not slow down until she came within view of her house, clutching her arms in front of her protectively. What could be happening? Who, if anyone, would want to haunt her way? And if it was all simply imagination, what was prompting her mind to fill her with such dread?

But she was determined to keep this to herself. Her father had already suffered so much in the past few months that she would not add to his burden. His life was only just beginning to achieve a semblance of normalcy again. He was already feeling saddened by the latest letter from Henry Lennox, who wrote with less optimism than he previously had about Frederick's chances. She would not frighten her father in addition to that dispiriting news.

She stopped at the door, her hand resting on the handle, and took several deep breaths, hoping that she had done enough to deflect suspicion. Finally she opened the door, but only because she was sure to attract attention in the street by lingering so long at her own doorstep. The house was silent, and she tried to convince herself that it was not eerily so. It was past the time for her father's pupils to be present, so naturally she would not hear the murmur of voices coming from the study. All the same, she was slightly unnerved as she made her way up the stairs.

"Margaret," he father called from the drawing room as she came near, "is that you?" She could not stop the sigh of relief that escaped her at the regular inquiry.

"Yes, Father," she affected as sincere a smile as she could as she stepped into the room.

"How was your visit to Mary?" he asked, standing. This she thought strange, as he usually remained seated when she came home.

"It was much the same as ever," she replied. "The children have become calmer than they used to be. I suppose that is due to their growing accustomed to being always in that house. The novelty has worn off."

"To be sure," he agreed, but with a distracted air.

Margaret lowered her eyebrows as she peered at him, for it occurred to her that he did not quite know where to look.

"I asked Mary when we might next visit the family together, and she said that Nicholas would likely be glad to see us in the next few days," she said in a more wheedling tone, hoping to gain his full attention. But aside from a nod, Mr. Hale did not acknowledge her.

"Is something wrong, Father?" she asked. "You seem anxious. Is something amiss?"

His eyes briefly widened at being caught in her perceptive glance and waved his hands in front of him to answer her question in the negative. "Nothing, my dear, nothing. I must . . . that is, there _is_ something I wish to discuss with you, and I just do not know how to begin."

She was completely at a loss to know what could be bothering him so. If something were truly wrong, he would appear much more sorrowful. Now he looked merely flustered. She sat when he beckoned to a chair, her curiosity banishing the distressing feelings of the last half-hour.

Mr. Hale, however, did not sit, choosing to pace a little, but always returning to the same spot, his fingers grazing what appeared to be a letter on the side table. Margaret bit the inside of her lower lip, but said nothing.

"I do not know if you noticed, Margaret, but I was not motivated only by kindness when I suggested you go to the Higginses's home this morning."

Her own eyes widened a little at his admission. "I thought perhaps you might have been ushering me out for a particular reason, but I was not entirely certain."

He nodded in embarrassment. "At least you did not press me for my reason and you left, so I do not mind that you were suspicious."

She pressed her lips together. What could he mean?

He stopped his pacing and faced her head-on. "I had a visitor today, Margaret, and I did not want to make you uncomfortable by his being here. Or rather, by the reason for his visit."

All at once it rushed in on her what, or more precisely who, had caused her father's restlessness, and a deep flush overspread her face as her mouth formed a silent "oh".

"Yes," he affirmed. "I can see you know who my visitor was. I was not wrong the other day, when I said I was sure to hear from Mr. Thornton soon. It took some days to find a time that suited, but he came today."

"And . . ." she prompted, too disconcerted to meet his eye, "what did he say?"

"Some very surprising things," Mr. Hale admitted, which drew her head up swiftly. "But I was not surprised by his request that he might court you."

Her breath caught in her throat, as emotions surged so fiercely and suddenly within her that she did not know if she should smile or weep. Her father, seeing plainly how deeply she felt it, was discomfited again by looking directly at her and began to pace once more, albeit not so rapidly.

"Yes, he wants there to be no question of his intentions any longer, and to be quite frank, I would like that, as well, since both of you mentioned that nothing had actually been openly acknowledged. What nonsense! So now you know for certain that he cares for you, and you need not be troubled on that score any longer."

The urge to smile overcame her other warring feelings, and she beamed fondly at his amusing reassurance.

"Furthermore, he also spoke of pursuing only a courtship at this time, and on this point I quite agree." He was resolutely looking away from her still, so he did not catch the brief disappointment that flashed in her eyes. "You spend little enough time together as it is, and with his business affairs being what they currently are, he will have little time to call. As far as I am aware, you two are still becoming acquainted, and I find it quite sensible of him to not rush matters."

Sensible, indeed! she could not stop herself from thinking. She would have appreciated more sensitivity and less sense in this instance, and it did rankle her a little to discover Mr. Thornton's apparent ambivalence to their future. Here she had been seriously contemplating marriage and he spoke only of being a parlor caller. She must be forgiven this indignation, however. She did not have the benefit, after all, of knowing exactly what her father was omitting from the interview in question.

"Margaret?" his voice pierced through her thoughts and she looked up to discover her father watching her curiously.

"Yes?" she stirred herself to delay her ruminations to a more private moment.

"I trust this is all agreeable to you."

How much he understated the matter! Although she did feel some annoyance that her initial joy had been dampened by some disappointment, she could not remain sorrowful in light of this happy and promising development. She did not think it appropriate to voice all she felt to her father, but she must say something. "Of course, Father. More than agreeable."

He nodded, then turned back to the table, picking up the letter he had been fingering before. "You need not depend upon only my word, naturally. He left this for you."

She caught the letter up in her hands instantly, hardly giving Mr. Hale a chance to hold it out to her. She hungrily looked at the address on the outside. She had seen his writing before in notes to her father, but this was the first time she saw her name in his hand. She turned it over in her hands in happy anticipation and glanced up at her father expectantly.

He knew too well what she wanted, and waved her off with an indulgent, "Off you go." She needed no further inducement to fly to her room, where she sank very improperly on her bed, breaking open the seal recklessly and unfolding the precious letter, which she noted was dated from the previous night.

 _My dear Margaret,_

 _I write this in anticipation, and some fear, that your father has granted his consent to my request. I hope that I have not been wrong in thinking that your feelings toward me have changed enough to desire a courtship between us. You may scoff at my reluctance or blindness, but I was wrong once before, and it has made me cautious._

 _Because I do not know what precisely will be said between your father and me, nor what he might disclose_ _to you_ _, I cannot write to explain a conversation that has not yet happened. But I am afraid that he will give you only the barest of facts, and I wish to make myself plain. If he has disclosed more to you than I assume he will, forgive me the repetition, but I will crave your indulgence nonetheless._

 _The feelings and wishes I once expressed to you remain unaltered. It may surprise you to know it; how could I be so foolish as to hold on to feelings that ha_ _ve_ _been refused? But I had no intention of forgetting you, nor am I ashamed to own as much. At the time, I had no hope that your feelings would ever alter, and I did not intend to pursue you. You made yourself very clear that you would not be intimidated into changing your mind. But still my affections endured._

 _When you came to me to help your brother, it was a surprise to realize that perhaps you did not think so badly of me as you once did. And when you later told me you thought well of me, it was a further shock. And I have spent all of our limited time together watching and hoping for any sign that you might one day care for me. I hope I am not vain when I say you have given me sufficient reason to believe it. Nothing has brought me greater joy in my life than to discover that I had a chance to claim that which is most precious to me._

 _I have formally asked, or rather will ask, only for a courtship, but this is because I want to be sure of your wishes first. I will not ask for your hand until you are ready to accept me. I pray that the day comes quickly, for I have desired your love this long while, and I am an impatient man. But, though I will try to call as often as I can, business affairs prevent me from being able to see you as often as I would like. Forgive me. If I could choose my circumstances, I would see you every day. The reality is that I am bound by long hours at the mill, and_ _I do not know much we will be in company. It is for this reason that I am afraid any chance of your accepting me will be a long time coming. If I am wrong, please inform me at the first opportunity. I no longer wish to be in ignorance of your feelings, whatever they are._

 _I fervently hope that you will read this letter, because if it is returned to me unopened, I do not think my heart shall recover from the blow. Please believe that I will devote my life to your happiness, and I will not fail you._

 _John_

The happiness this letter produced in Margaret is perhaps too great to be described. Her earlier indignation at his perceived apathy was entirely done away; he expressed himself too earnestly to be doubted. It was obvious that her father, whatever their conversation had been, was reluctant to give her many details, and had erroneously, if innocently, led her into thinking Mr. Thornton did not care so deeply. But he _did_ care, and she wanted to dance around her room in the knowledge of it! She could now appreciate his request for courtship as respect for her feelings; however, she knew that she would not want to postpone their happiness any longer than absolutely necessary. She knew what she wanted, and now that she was certain of what Mr. Thornton wanted, there was no sense in pretending otherwise.

When would he come? Now she sincerely wished that her father had not sent her away, that they might have seen one another and not relied on this insufficient written communication. Although she could not deny that to have such a proof of his devotion and affection was a charming gift. She remained there a long time, reading over and over the words that brought such joy to her heart.

For now, at least, her earlier fear was completely forgotten in excited contentment.

* * *

 **A/N:** Oh, my goodness, my profound apologies, everyone, for the long delay. That is so unlike me. I was having some health issues (nothing serious; I'm fine) that kind of deflated my motivation for writing, and then time simply got away from me, and before I knew it, here it is, two weeks after my last post! Sorry, sorry, sorry! My husband is even "berating" me for neglecting my faithful followers. To the three people who left reviews hoping that I'm okay, thank you for your concern! I'm fine. And I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. My motivation is back on, and I'm getting ahead again in my chapters, so I should be back to regular posting until the end of the story (key phrase here: _should_ be). My family is going out of town again for a few days, but I will be back on Wednesday, and I hopefully anticipate that I will post again then. -crossing fingers- Until then, I hope this appeases you. :)


	18. A Mystery Solved

Despite Margaret's enthusiasm for penning a reply to Mr. Thornton's letter, she had trouble getting on with it. She was not sure how to begin it, nor how to best express her desires and affection. She had never imagined writing such a letter, and knowing what words to put to paper was exceedingly difficult. Much easier was it for her to write to Frederick and apprise him of the very events that he had foreseen.

 _You will hardly be surprised, my impertinent brother, by this latest news. And I will ask you not to crow over me about it, either. Although if you did, I'm not certain I would mind so much; I am too happy about the circumstances to allow any teasing to affect me greatly. But I will depend on your familial generosity that you will restrain yourself somehow._

 _I do hope that by the time we receive your next letter that my status will again have changed. Mr. Thornton says himself he is impatient, and I must confess that, though there is still much to learn, I am no less ready to move forward. I do wonder how this will affect our father, but he cannot protest it too much since he has given his consent thus far._

A knock resounded at her door as she wrote her adieus. "Yes?" she called out, waving the paper gently to dry the ink.

The door opened to reveal Dixon. "The master wishes to know when you will be ready."

"Thank you, Dixon," she replied easily. "I have just finished and will be down shortly."

Dixon gave a curt nod and left the door open behind her as she went to deliver Margaret's message. Margaret pressed her lips together, still struggling between annoyance and amusement at Dixon's behavior. Margaret's romantic entanglements could no longer be kept a secret, and to say Dixon was displeased would be a kind way to put it.

In some ways, Margaret felt pity for the woman. She had served Mrs. Hale so faithfully, even following her, however unwillingly, to this foreign place. Now her dear mistress had passed on, and she continued in her loyalty to the family out of respect for her memory. No doubt she hoped that eventually Margaret would return to more genteel society, especially since Mrs. Shaw would be returning to London so soon, and she would accompany Margaret away from this wretched country. But now it seemed she would never leave this place she so openly despised without abandoning her dear girl. Some compassion was needed to deal with a person who felt so trapped.

But Margaret would not suffer any disrespect from Dixon toward Mr. Thornton, and she did not appreciate Dixon's assumption that her opinion would change Margaret's decisions. It was often a comfort to her to know Dixon would never alter, but in this instance, some lenience and less muttering would be more than tolerable.

Still, Margaret mused as she gathered her things and joined her father, she would not help her cause by being too cross with Dixon. It would not make for a peaceful home environment, and she was too grateful for Dixon's unflagging fidelity to drive her away. They would simply have to find some way to build an accord that would be agreeable to both their lives.

Similarly she wondered as she walked with Mr. Hale how her relationship with Mr. Thornton, no longer conjecture or secret hopes, would affect her association with Nicholas Higgins, whom they were going to visit this evening. Would he disapprove as heartily as did Dixon? She was not certain of her father's intended conversation with him once they arrived, but it was possible that Mr. Thornton's name would be brought up in the some way or another. She found herself so occupied with this thought that she forgot to look out for any strange lurkers as they walked.

Mr. Hale did mention Mr. Thornton to Nicholas soon after they were seated in his home, but to Margaret's relief, it was only a question relating to his work and the mill and how he got on with "the master".

Although it was true that Nicholas seemed to be doing well at Marlborough Mills and did not shy away from the subject of Mr. Thornton when he was mentioned, he did not speak of him very easily. His long-cherished beliefs about masters in general were still so ingrained in him that he struggled with the necessity of changing his views. It was a tax on his pride to admit Mr. Thornton was not as he first appeared. Margaret could easily sympathize.

"It's well enough," he answered Mr. Hale's question. "I haven't had much cause to complain against the master, and that's something. But I've also kept quiet at work; I won't give him the chance to give me the sack."

"You don't think he would discharge you without reason, surely," Mr. Hale protested.

"No," he admitted, ducking his head a little. "But I'm finding it harder to make him out. I'm not sure when he eats or sleeps; he's always at his work. He right puzzles me. It's as though he's two chaps – one is the master I knew, and the other hasn't an ounce of master's flesh in him. And how those two chaps are bound in one body I can't figure. He hasn't forgotten the children and comes by for to examine them in their schooling, and I didn't think he'd remember them still."

"He is not so puffed up as you once imagined?" Margaret observed with a small smile, to which Nicholas shook his head and finger at her.

"I never thought him puffed up, Miss, not like one of them fine fellows who don't know nothing of us in the North. But he's a man set in his ways and stubborn, as you _do_ know I've said."

Margaret nodded slowly. Nicholas had hit upon the crux of her lingering worry, one that she still had found no confidant or advisor for. Could such a fiercely stubborn man change his ways, or even accept the differing judgment of another?

"But that's a bit of the puzzle," he went on, and Margaret was careful to listen. "Here I thought he was a man unmoved, never to be shaken out of his ways. And he would just push aside a man such as me. If I were to say anything against him, why would he listen? He must trust my word as far as he could throw me; he'd only think me thick and backward, and pay me no more mind than a dog in the streets. That's what I thought once. And then he comes here, and he don't do anything that I think he will."

"What does he do?" Margaret asked more eagerly than she intended.

"He sits and listens and stares!" Nicholas exclaimed. "As though I were some new creature he's never seen. But he listens . . ." he trailed off, still shaking his head incredulously. "And he tells me I've given him a deal to think on. Who would have believed it?"

"Do you think he considers the things you tell him?" Mr. Hale asked, seeing Margaret was deep in thought.

Nicholas jerked a shrug at first to disregard the idea, but then stopped himself. "No . . . I'll give him the credit for thinking he does. And I'll also say that he doesn't stay silent all the time. He doesn't treat me as a lowly creature with no understanding or brains. He'll tell me something even if it's rough and not so agreeable at first. But then I'll think on it and it'll have a queer smack of truth to it." His voice grew gruff at this, for once again he had to admit to his own shortcomings and the surprising respect he was given by Mr. Thornton.

"So he doesn't dismiss your point of view even though you differ so greatly?" Margaret clarified, her eyes intensely focused on him.

He nodded. "That's what I've been saying, Miss, a wonder as it is." He cocked half a grin as he said, "And it is something to take credit for improving him above a bit."

His joking boast brought an amused smile to all their party, but it also drew that particular subject to a close as Margaret turned her attention to the children. But she kept Nicholas's words in her heart, a warm talisman in her breast that answered and alleviated her last concern. Little did Nicholas know that what he had said confirmed that her decision to accept Mr. Thornton was right. Difficult the path may yet be, but not wrong. She could not stop a secret smile from overspreading her face for the rest of the evening.

Nicholas was glad to leave off the topic of Mr. Thornton and speak to Mr. Hale of other things. But he could not help glancing occasionally at Margaret, who had seemed more than usually happy at his opinion of the master. It could be that she was simply glad for his sake that her recommendation had not been for ill, but he was curious about the distracted and yet contented way she conducted herself.

His bemusement continued so far as to see the young lady and her father out the door and watch as they walked beyond the street. However, something else caught his eye in the scene before him that roused a more pointed suspicion, and he turned back to beckon his daughter to his side.

"Mary-lass," he called to her, "what do you make of that?"

* * *

Mr. Thornton glanced at the clock above him. Only a few minutes until the whistle sounded for the break. And after the initial bustle and hurry, there would be silence at the mill until the next whistle blew. Every day it was the same. If only all of life could operate so steadily.

He had not been able to visit the Hales again since his meeting with Mr. Hale, and he was anxious to see Margaret. From what Mr. Hale said and the fact he had not received a swift rejection, he was hopeful that Margaret shared his gladness at this new stage. But he had yet to know for certain what she thought. He had hoped for a reply to his letter, but he reminded himself that he had had several days to compose his own letter, and the one he had finally delivered had been the eighth draft. Margaret, no doubt, would find it just as strange and difficult to express herself in a way that was new to her, and he must be patient. But resolving to be patient was far more easy than actually being so.

It said a great deal about his feelings, though, that he regarded the lack of reply as optimistically as he did. Once he would have thought her silence meant disapproval. Now he was confident enough to believe that she was merely unequipped to navigate unknown waters, as he was, but that once they both passed that initial barrier, she would return his affections gladly.

The familiar bell sounded, and he remained in place during the rowdy haste of the workers. Even during more certain and prosperous times, he rarely took a midday break, and he continued in his work as the noise died down. He was taken aback, however, to hear a knock at his door. He looked up to see Higgins in the doorway, and set down his pen in confusion. The man's face was surprisingly somber, and though he was not given to much levity, he rarely looked so serious. Immediately Mr. Thornton concluded that there must, at last, be some grievance at the mill that they must discuss.

"What is it, Higgins?" He waved him in.

"Begging your pardon, Master," Higgins removed his cap as he stepped inside, "but there's something I must speak with you about."

"Of course. I assumed as much," he replied dryly, but Higgins's expression did not change. Indeed, his frown seemed to deepen, and Mr. Thornton was increasingly perplexed. It was not like Higgins to hesitate in anything he said, even when it was unpleasant.

"What is it?" he repeated. "Clearly there is something bothering you. Come on and have it out."

Higgins looked down at the cap he was fumbling about in his hands for a moment, then cleared his throat. "It's not an easy matter I come to you about, Master," he muttered. "And it perhaps isn't my place, but I thought you the best one to come to, under the circumstances."

Mr. Thornton furrowed his brow at this prologue. Naturally he would be the best person to approach if there was a problem at the mill. This was just what they agreed to, wasn't it? He was not prepared for what Higgins said next.

"I'm not mistaking it if I say you take an interest in Miss Hale?"

The unexpected nature of this inquiry practically knocked him back in his chair. What did Margaret have to do with anything Higgins had to say?

"E-excuse me?" he stuttered.

"Miss Hale," Higgins repeated. "You take an interest, do you not, sir?" And now, despite his mostly grim expression, a knowing gleam sparked in his eye.

Mr. Thornton was thunderstruck. He was not trying to keep his courtship a secret, but it was so far still such an early and private matter that it was shocking that Higgins seemed to know about it. And what could such a question lead to?

"I -" he scrambled about for a reply, but could hardly think. And if Higgins did not look so serious, he suspected the man would have highly enjoyed his discombobulation. "How can you be aware of it?" he finally stammered out.

Higgins gave him a long-suffering look. "I've got eyes, Master, and brains to go along with them. It's enough to know you are interested in her well-being, aren't you?"

"Her wel-" he trailed off, suddenly no longer interested in Higgins's knowledge of his relationship with Margaret. His turn of phrase was ominous, and it was the work of a moment that Mr. Thornton rose in alarm. "What has happened to her? Tell me!"

Higgins lifted his palms toward Mr. Thornton in an attempt to calm him. "Nothing as yet, Master. She has not come to harm."

"'Nothing as yet'?" he echoed. "What do you mean? Is Margaret in danger?" He strode around his desk and looked down at Higgins intensely. In a moment he would shake him if he didn't speak quickly.

Higgins, seeing clearly the rage that Mr. Thornton could work himself into, obliged him and spoke quickly, but quietly. "I think she may be, but I cannot be sure. When she and the parson came to my home last week I saw something that caught my notice. A man. Watching her."

"What man?" he wanted to thunder, although he had enough presence of mind not to shout in his office. Who could want to hurt her? Where was he? His hands clenched into fists at his side.

Nicholas, still hoping to prevent an impulse of violence from him, reached out and laid a hand on Mr. Thornton's shoulder. The familiar gesture caught Mr. Thornton off-guard, and his building anger was halted briefly in surprise.

Still quiet, Nicholas spoke. "I know you're disturbed, Master, but it is better for me to speak my piece before you fly off in a fury. Now, if you'll sit, I'll tell you all, but I ask that you listen to everything before you do anything else. It won't take long, I promise you that."

Did Higgins know what he asked? He had just told him Margaret was in danger and then expected him to sit calmly and quietly? But it was clear from the determined set of his eyes that that was exactly what he expected, and he could hardly act without any of the facts. He forced himself not to huff childishly as he stalked back to his chair, and Higgins took the one opposite him silently.

He did not remain silent for long, though. As soon as Mr. Thornton was seated and facing him directly, he began. "As I said, Mr. and Miss Hale paid us a call last week, and it was as they left that I saw him. A stranger to me, and he seemed especially interested in the Hales. I thought he was looking more at her than him, and at first I didn't think much on it. She's a well-looking girl, and it's not the first time as she's caught a man's eye. But he wouldn't stop looking, and that's what made me wonder."

"Who is he?" Mr. Thornton broke in, impatient and bothered.

Again, Higgins held up a hand to hold back the impending loss of temper. "Please, Master, let me go on. I asked my girl what she thought of it, and she told me something of interest once he'd gone."

"Did he follow them?" he interrupted again, seething.

"No," Nicholas answered evenly. "I made sure of that. But that ties to what my Mary told me. You know Miss Hale visits her regular."

He nodded shortly.

"Miss Hale herself confessed to a feeling that she was being watched."

He began to rise again, his whole being filling with angry panic, but Nicholas held out his hand yet again, but more adamantly. "If you don't stop, sir, I will hold you down myself until I am done. So help me, I will."

Mr. Thornton sat back, wondering how on earth he was supposed to do nothing with tidings such as these.

"Of course, she told Mary to pay it no mind, that she was only thinking about other things and was sure it was nothing to concern herself."

He snorted. How like Margaret to deflect worry in others, even when her own safety was in question. Judging by the look of Higgins's eye, he agreed with his reaction entirely.

"I haven't seen him again in our street, but I've asked about, and his face is known in the neighborhood, hanging about where he's got no business to. No one I've spoke to as yet knows his name, but he seems a scoundrel by all accounts. And Miss Hale doesn't come to see my girl as much as she was used to. She can't think as light of it as she tries to."

Mr. Thornton balled up his fist, holding it against his mouth to keep from exploding. If Higgins didn't know who this stranger was, he would find out. And he would throttle him, if given the opportunity. How dare he watch Margaret, drive her away, threaten her peace of mind? He didn't care if Higgins forcibly pushed him down, he had to move about to relieve his feelings. He leapt up and began to pace. "Is that all you know?"

"It was all I knew until this morning. I said I hadn't seen him again in our street, but I saw him again this morning before work started."

"Where? Where did you see him?" he demanded, bracing himself with both hands against the wall.

"Here."

He whirled around in horror. "You mean it's one of _my_ hands?"

"No, sir. I didn't see him going in the mill to work; I saw him next to your house."

He narrowed his eyes. Did this man also know of his connection to Margaret and was now targeting him? What could this possibly mean?

"That's why I came to you, Master. He wasn't hanging about the house alone; he was speaking to a woman. One of your maids, I should think, by the look of her. She went back in the house by a side door."

"One of my . . ." This was utterly confounding. He began to pace again.

"I thought that if he was connected to a maid in your house, you'd be able to discover who he is and put a stop to his devilry."

There was something he was missing, something that connected a strange man to both Margaret and one of his maids. What was it?

"The maid he spoke to, what did she look like?"

"Couldn't see too well; I was keeping my distance. I think dark hair, short."

His mother employed a few maids, and such a description lent itself to more than one of them.

"He was not keeping his distance from her, though. He was holding her close."

He abruptly stopped. A stranger closely connected with one of his maids, a reputation as a rascal, and acutely interested in the Hales? The answer came ringing in his ears, and Higgins could see by the fire in his eyes that he had arrived at a conclusion.

"You know who it is, Master?" Higgins rose slowly from his chair, amazed.

"Yes." He could barely speak, so choking was his furious passion.

Leonards.


	19. A Foolish Maid

He burst through the front door like a man possessed, Higgins hard at his heels. Doubtless his mother would be appalled by the man's presence in her home, but Mr. Thornton had far more pressing business at hand than to worry about his mother's sensibilities. He glanced at the staircase leading upward for a bare moment before taking the turn to go down to the kitchens, where most of the staff would be gathered.

Thanks to the noisy manner of his entrance, those below had a little warning that not all was well upstairs, but they were not prepared to see the master of the house appear so suddenly before them. It was a further shock to see what kind of fellow accompanied him, and they all snapped to attention as though under military command.

To forestall any great uproar, Mr. Thornton spoke quickly. Anybody standing near was sure to see the cold fury churning within his eyes, although his voice was steady and quiet. "Where is Betsy? I would like to speak with her."

There was a brief silence as they all looked at one another. "Quickly!" he exclaimed more forcefully. "Where is she?"

"If you please, sir," one of the maids replied, "she should be attending her duties above-stairs. In the drawing room or the library, I think."

He nodded shortly, then swiveled on his heel and bounded back up the stairs, Higgins still following closely behind, though not without an audible puff of breath. By the time they had gone up, Mrs. Thornton had emerged from her sitting room, curious and concerned by the commotion. Her son passed by her without a word, and she hardly had time to notice his companion, so stunned was she by the thunderous look on Mr. Thornton's face.

"What is it, John?" she asked to his back, but he did not turn.

He peered quickly into the drawing room to find it empty, then thrust open the library door with an impatient bang. He heard the maid's gasp before he stalked fully into the room, and once she came into view, she was stepping off a low stool, a rag in hand. At the sight of her master and the deadly look in his eye, she immediately backed into the wall as far as she could, but there was little place to retreat.

"Betsy," he greeted her curtly, taking his place by the window where she could clearly see the scowl on his face. Higgins stood at patrol by the door, ready to wave off anybody who might dare to eavesdrop.

"Yes, sir?" she asked feebly.

"There is something I wish to speak to you about. Do you know what that might be?" He still spoke quietly and evenly, though his stillness was more frightening than if he had shouted.

"I . . ." she cast her eyes to the man at the door, as though he would give her some hint, but his stony expression gave away nothing, and she was forced to face her master again. "I'm sorry, sir, I do not. Have I displeased you?"

A muted and unamused laugh escaped him at the question, and his lip curled in disdain. "You truly do not know what could disturb me to such a degree that I would seek _you_ out?"

"Master," Higgins cautioned, "you'd best watch yourself. She may truly not know what has been happening."

He heaved a sigh through his nostrils at the warning. The only reason he had not given way to his temper yet was the reminder that Betsy herself might be ignorant of Leonards's activities, but it was nearly impossible to not unleash his anger in some way. He balled up his fists at his side in an effort to dispel some of his irate energy. By the confused and unnerved look on Betsy's face, she was unaware of what they spoke, and it was his responsibility to be absolutely clear so that he might discover what she did know.

"You are still engaged to that man Leonards, I assume," he began, trying to not spit out the villain's name. But her face still turned red at the mention of him.

"He's not been keeping me from my duties, sir!" she pleaded. "He's come visiting me on occasion, but he never comes to the front door, and I don't keep him long." She threw a dirty look Higgins's way, now sure that this man worked at the mill and had thought to report her bad behavior to the master. If he thought to curry favor in that way, he would be sorry. His bitter and silent smile at her response surprised her.

"You mistake me, Betsy," Mr. Thornton turned her attention back to him. "I am not here to discuss your behavior, but his."

" _His_ behavior?" she repeated. "He hasn't done nothing wrong, sir!"

"On the contrary," he protested, his voice icy. "He has done a great wrong. But if you don't know that he has been following Miss Hale all about town, I don't blame you for defending him."

Her previously red face paled at once. "How did you . . .?" she reacted without thinking, then clapped her hands over her mouth in horror.

"Find out?" His anger flared immediately at the confirmation that she did know something of the disgusting business. He took a few steps toward her in outrage, his voice rising accordingly. "The question you should be asking is how could I _not_ find out? Anybody in Milton may know of my connection to the family, at the very least of my friendship with Mr. Hale. This does not make me indifferent to their various troubles." Even of the ones that they did not personally inform him of, in this case. "So it _is_ true, then, that Leonards is the man terrorizing Miss Hale? Heaven help you if you dare lying to me."

"Terrorizing?" Amazingly, she seemed to take offense at the word. "No, sir, not that. He's a good man, truly. It's not his fault that he's fallen on hard times; they wouldn't give him a fair chance!"

"They? His employers at the railway?" he asked, bewildered at her reaction. "And after you assured me that they would be certain to recognize his worth, that he would prove himself worthy of an even better position?"

"He _is_ worthy," she asserted. "They just didn't appreciate him and sent him off."

"I'm sure they had their reasons," he growled.

"It doesn't matter; he'll find something better. He just needs something to tide him over until then," she persisted stubbornly, reminding him of a petulant child.

"If Leonards is such a prince among men," he _did_ spit out his words here with sarcastic venom, "why would he go after Miss Hale?"

"Those Hales are not so wonderful as you might suppose," she protested. "Him and his 'matter of conscience' and their high-and-mightiness." He took another enraged step toward her, and Higgins now felt it expedient to quickly intervene, crossing over to him and holding a firm hand up to his arm to steady him. The foolish girl did not seem to sense her danger, so wrapped up she was in trying to defend her shameful lover. "And that's not to mention the son," she went on, which did more to stop Mr. Thornton in his tracks than Nicholas's efforts.

Betsy took his pause in her own way. "You didn't know about him, I'll wager, sir. Ashamed they must be, to keep quiet of him. And no wonder, him being a mutineer and criminal."

Higgins was truly shocked by this revelation, but Mr. Thornton shook his head in annoyed amusement. "Again you are mistaken. I know very well of Frederick Hale," to which her eyes widened. "As I said, I am not indifferent to their family troubles. And you had better take care of how you speak of them and how you speak to me. You are on dangerous ground, Betsy."

Betsy's eyes darted to Higgins, who nodded even as he kept a fierce grip on Mr. Thornton's sleeve. "You'd best listen to what he says, lass. You've done yourself no favors yet."

The severity of the situation now was made obvious to her and her entire countenance changed to one of fear rather than of justification. "He's never meant to harm her, I swear," she professed in a sudden tone of beseeching. "At first he just wanted to be sure who she was; he knew the family some of old, but he had to make inquiries and know he wasn't wrong about her. And then he wanted to . . ."

"What?" the growl came again, and she cowered.

"Nudge her a little, press her for information." She was right to be afraid of meeting Mr. Thornton's gaze, for surely no one could withstand the lethal glare he was giving.

"Information?" he snarled. "About her brother?"

She nodded, still keeping her stare directed to the floor. "He wants to find him, bring him to justice."

There were not words enough in Mr. Thornton's vocabulary to fully describe his anger, nor of the epithets he applied to George Leonards. He had a few choice words he wished to fling at Betsy for her stupidity and even complicity in that charlatan's schemes, but for now he could only focus on the despicable cur that threatened his beloved Margaret. He wrenched himself out of Higgins's grasp and paced back to the window. "To justice, indeed," he muttered contemptuously. To collect the reward was far more likely. Had Leonards not said as much to Dixon when she had run across him? So it was that Margaret was in jeopardy for such a paltry thing as money.

He whirled back around, but did not move from his place otherwise. Higgins was watching him carefully and closely, no doubt in order to stop him from blasting his temper on Betsy undeservedly. Betsy still bent her shoulders inward, as though to protect herself from his wrath, her eyes downcast. He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.

"What does he think, that Frederick Hale is foolish enough to remain in England and run the risk of being caught and hanged?"

She shrugged. "He might," she murmured lamely. "And then Leonards might have some security . . ." she trailed off, perhaps finally realizing that she was grasping at straws.

Her voice stirred a drop of pity in him. But his reply, however softened, still had some harshness in it. "All at the cost of an innocent woman's security." Betsy's head dropped lower, if that was possible. "Whatever Frederick Hale's crimes, they are not his family's. Miss Hale has done nothing to warrant Leonards's actions. And whatever his intentions concerning her, you cannot believe that they have done no harm to her. He meant to intimidate and harass her, and that is enough to speak for his low character."

"Yes, sir," was the trembling response. A tear splashed onto her dress, a dark stain standing out among the gray of her uniform.

He shifted about uncomfortably, his pity for her growing. Certainly she was foolish for knowing about Leonards's plans without informing anyone, but it was evident her lack of action was not malicious. She had chosen the wrong man with whom to keep company; that was the extent of her responsibility. She was not the first woman to be led astray by a man, nor would she be the last.

He rubbed at his mouth. "You should go. Go downstairs and compose yourself. You will not need to finish your work here today."

Her head flew up, panic shining in her red-rimmed eyes. "You'll not dismiss me, sir, will you? Please, sir, I cannot lose my place here!"

In all honesty, he had no idea what to do with her. Did she really deserve to be discharged? Some form of punishment seemed appropriate, but what that might be, he did not know. Besides that, her dismay and disappointment might be punishment enough. "I do not know," he said simply. "I will not make that decision so quickly. Go below, and I'll see that nobody disturbs you the rest of the day."

She nodded meekly, threw another quick glance in Higgins's direction, then made her way out of the room without another sound. The room remained in silence after her departure, as Nicholas did not know what to say, and Mr. Thornton was lost in tumultuous thoughts.

They were not allowed to remain silent for long, though. In a moment, Mrs. Thornton whisked her way into the library. She had too much personal pride to snoop about and listen in on conversations she had no business in, but it did not follow that she didn't intend to find out what she could.

"John?" she asked grimly, casting her eye on Higgins before fixing her stare on her son, who was standing at the window, a weary cast to his features. "What is going on?"

He sighed and moved toward her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Nothing to concern yourself with, Mother."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Do you really believe I would be comforted by that?"

She had a point. "No, I suppose not," he admitted. "But it is a private matter, and I must think. I am sorry, but I cannot say more than that."

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. "And Betsy?"

"I have sent her below. She needs some time to . . . calm herself," he said enigmatically. "If you could inform the others that she is not to be disturbed, I would be grateful. She has received some discouraging news." He kept his eyes away from Higgins, who would likely be making a skeptical face at his interpretation of the confrontation.

His mother was no less suspicious, but she reluctantly agreed. If her son said he could not speak of a private matter, that was simply that, and she would not pry where she was not wanted. "Do not forget you can consult with me," she reminded him feelingly before leaving as quickly as she came.

Nicholas did not miss the final brief look she threw his way, however, a look full of warning and pleading. He shook his head silently; Mrs. Thornton was certainly not a woman to be crossed, and he would not dare her wrath by being a perfidious influence on her son. Some good he might try to do by educating Mr. Thornton more on the working man, but he would not work against him dishonestly.

"Well, Master?"

Mr. Thornton met him with a long stare. "Well, Higgins?" he rejoined.

"What will you do?"

Mr. Thornton snorted and turned back to the window, bracing himself against the wall. "I do not know. I will not allow him to hurt Margaret. I must find him out and . . ." he trailed off ominously. Who knew what he would do to Leonards once he found him?

Higgins stepped forward. "If you'll be taking some advice, I might have some to offer."

Another sigh. "Please. If left to my own devices, I might do something I would regret."

Higgins stepped alongside him, fixing him with an intent look. "You'd regret it for certain. A rascal such as he is would not be worth destroying your whole life, however much he may deserve it. And it wouldn't do you no good to search him out now."

He gave Higgins a sharp look at this. "Why not? I need to warn him off of Margaret; he cannot be allowed to hurt her more."

"He hasn't hurt her; you'd hardly have a case against him."

"You want me to let him continue? You want Margaret to stay in danger from him?" he faced him now, incredulous at the suggestion.

"I'm not saying that you leave Miss Hale unprotected, but he would likely say he's just walking about and there's no cause to fight him on that. And if you want to keep her safe, and her family, you need to stop him in a lasting way, not just holding him off now so he can create mischief another time."

It was galling to admit that Higgins was right. He could not bring a case against Leonards as Margaret was so far unhurt. And it would be better to find a more permanent way of stopping him. But how to do so before Margaret was put at greater risk?

"How can I stop him as you suggest?"

Higgins shrugged. "No-account layabouts such as he usually are involved in other criminal business just to make ends meet. If he's out of work, he's surely desperate. We might catch him in something of that nature."

That wasn't much to go on, but it was not implausible that Leonards would resort to other extreme measures to make a living, honest or otherwise. He rubbed at his jaw, frustrated at this feeling of powerlessness. He had influence in Milton, and he would use it in any way he could to warn the police, to hire out help, but what he wished most to do, to confront Leonards directly, was precisely what he could not. Even his elevated status in the community would not protect him from the violent urges he would likely give way to if face-to-face with the man.

"I will at least keep on Betsy," he finally muttered. "She must know where he lives and where he might spend his days. She can inform us of his intentions toward Margaret if they change."

"If he confides in her," Higgins pointed out.

"He might," he replied with a growl. "He's confided in her so far, and if she gives him no hint that there's trouble for him, he might still. It's something, at least. I'll make it a condition of her staying on here; you saw how much she wanted to keep her position. She's better able to tell us of his activities than anybody else at present."

Higgins nodded in acknowledgment. It was not an ideal arrangement, but at least they knew more than they did only an hour before.

"As for Margaret," Mr. Thornton continued, "I'll see her tonight."

* * *

 **A/N:** All right, if you look up laws about stalking, there really weren't laws about it until fairly recently in the world's history. There were known stalkers during Victorian times, but they were usually only convicted once they'd done some other criminal act (robbery, murder, breaking and entering, etc.). Side note: Look up "the boy Jones", who broke into Buckingham Palace multiple times! Clearly he'd be arrested for breaking into a house, anyway, and it must have been _far_ worse in the QUEEN'S house. Yikes! End Side note. So they're not wrong that they have little reason to go to the police in this situation, because there wasn't much to be done in such cases unless Leonards had done something else to Margaret. So yeah, in case you think it's lame that John's not doing more (at this point, at least), this is my justification.


	20. A Quiet Evening at Home

All in all, it had been a relatively quiet evening at home. Margaret sat with her needlework, and her father occupied himself with a book. Few words were exchanged, and, though it was peaceful, she wished it were otherwise. She had at last finished writing a reply to Mr. Thornton just before supper, and as she still needed to post it, it sat in her room, just waiting for her to decide that it was terrible, forward, and all too short, finishing by casting it into the fire. The silence of the evening left it weighing on her mind, and she hoped that her father would provide her with some conversation to distract her.

But it was not to be, it seemed. The occasional glances she threw his way revealed that Mr. Hale was having a difficult time getting through his book. Every once in a while, it would dangle closer to his lap, only to be recalled to its former position with a sharp intake of breath and a shake of his head. His eyes were beginning to droop, and he was clearly making no progress in his current state.

She was on the edge of suggesting that he retire to bed early when a forceful pull of the bell rang below. This pulled Mr. Hale out of his relaxed stupor, and they shared a confused look. It was not too late to receive callers, but they had not been expecting anybody. It was not long before they heard Dixon's movement to answer the door, and a muted conversation once she opened it. The brief thought that it might be merely a messenger or shop-person was quickly dispelled by the tread of footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. Only now did she dare to hope that it might be Mr. Thornton, and she was more than pleased to see him appear a moment later.

"John!" Mr. Hale exclaimed in surprise, his earlier tiredness temporarily banished by the unexpected visit. He stood and extended his hand, which Mr. Thornton took firmly. "We did not know you were coming this evening. Did you send word?"

Mr. Thornton shook his head in reply. "No, you must excuse me. I did not know until this afternoon that I would have the evening free, and by then it was too late to send a note. I hope I am not intruding," he chanced a look Margaret's way as he spoke, a little reticence in his manner as he awaited a greeting from her.

She would have said something, but her father spoke first. "Not at all, not at all. We are glad to have some company. Is that not right, Margaret?"

He still looked at her, a veiled eagerness in his eyes, and she was no less ready to welcome him and show her pleasure at seeing him. "Of course," she replied to her father, all the while keeping her gaze on Mr. Thornton, a shy smile peeking through the blush she felt overspreading her cheeks.

He returned her smile with a small one of his own, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. How was she to act now, especially in her father's presence? She may know his feelings and her own, but it gave her no knowledge whatsoever of how behave in company.

If he was restrained by the same difficulties, he gave little indication of it. Without another word, he stepped toward her and reached out a hand. Instinctively, her hand moved to meet it, and he took it gently in his. "I am glad to see you, Miss Hale," he murmured, the formality of his address belied by the caress in his voice and the soft pressure of his hand. Such a contrast drew her head up again, and she was immediately heated by the burning intensity of his eyes.

She felt herself overcome and captivated, but forced herself to speak. "I am glad to see you, as well, Mr. Thornton." His smile deepened, and she returned it happily. With a single action, he had made it abundantly clear who he came to see, and she was gratified and a little excited to know it was her. And as she met his eyes bravely, she resolved within herself to stop looking away from him, no matter how greatly he affected her. She rather liked the feeling he inspired within her with such a look, besides. It seemed to fill not only her, but the entire room.

A slight cough from her father recalled her to the reality that there was one person in the room who did not feel completely at ease, and she and Mr. Thornton took a step away from each other. As he threw an apologetic nod in Mr. Hale's direction and another smile back at her, she took her seat again, rubbing her hand where he had pressed it so tenderly.

"Can we offer you anything?" Mr. Hake asked, uncertainty lacing his voice. Evidently he was unsure of how to act in this new situation, as well. If his friend was here primarily to see Margaret, how much should he really take part in the conversation? "Shall we ring for tea?"

Taking a seat himself, Mr. Thornton replied, "That will not be necessary, thank you."

There was a tense pause in the room now that opening pleasantries were uttered, and Margaret could see her father's eyes darting back and forth between her and Mr. Thornton. He was so used to taking charge of the conversation when in Mr. Thornton's presence, and his silence now both amused and touched her. He evidently did not want to interfere with whatever Mr. Thornton and she would wish to say to one another, and she knew how difficult it was for him to make such an adjustment. She knew she had better say something to relieve some of the awkwardness.

"I hope that your being here means that business at the mill might be returning to its usual pace."

Mr. Thornton's face, at first startled by the inquiry, soon gave away that her statement was far from the truth. "I wish that were so. Matters are more complicated."

Obviously she had picked the wrong topic. "I am sorry," she said regretfully. "I do trust, however, that Nicholas has been a good worker. I would not like to think I was responsible for further trouble."

At this changed but related subject, his eyes lifted and the aspect of his countenance lightened. Here was safer ground. "He has. I must thank you for sending me an experienced worker who is also diligent. It would be a different mill entirely if all my hands were like Higgins."

"Certainly it would," she agreed with a smile. "You would be inundated with demands for improvements every moment if such were the case."

He grinned at her joking supposition. "Then I will not hope for such a fate, even if I could use more knowledgeable men." He sobered slightly. "But in truth, Higgins has not been at my ear too much. I think he is wary of making too much of a fuss and losing his position. He has too great a reason to put his place in jeopardy."

She smiled to herself at his perception, and he cocked his head in question at her secret amusement. "What is it?"

"Oh, that is just what he said the other night, isn't it, Father?" she extended an opening to Mr. Hale, who was stifling a yawn.

"Quite so," Mr. Hale assented with a bleary eye, "though he did give some credit to the idea that he wouldn't be put in too much danger by the occasional complaint."

"That is some comfort, I suppose," Mr. Thornton said. "He is not wrong; even the odd grievance would not be detrimental in his case. He is too valuable a worker to let off lightly. And I am not so easily offended as to dismiss a man for disagreeing with me."

"And even if you were offended," Margaret continued, "you are too fair-minded to do such a thing without just cause. You are not so petty."

True as her observation might be, he was still a little taken aback. When would it no longer be a surprise that she had a good opinion of his character? He gave her an embarrassed nod and muttered, "Thank you. But I think you know that I am still as capable of holding a grudge as any man. One in particular that I still struggle with, even after many years."

Her eyes grew soft at this admission and allusion to their conversation in the cemetery, and she leaned toward him. 'But you are trying to forgive him, are you not?"

Now it was he who felt captivated by her searching gaze, and he nodded again. "Yes. Though it is not easy," his voice dropped to a near-whisper.

Margaret felt a powerful urge to take his hand as an act of comfort, but her father, though quiet, was still in the room and she did not want to push her luck. Instead she gave him as encouraging a smile as she could as she spoke. "I have faith in you."

His lips parted as though to speak, but what reply was sufficient for the kindness in her voice, the softness of her smile, or the alluring light in her eyes? He felt himself torn between immense gratitude for her confidence in him and a building desire to draw her close in a scandalous manner. She appeared caught in his stare, as well, and his hand began inching forward of its own volition. Any moment now Mr. Hale would likely be injecting his cough to break the overwhelming anticipation. But so far nothing was forthcoming, and every moment increased the magnetic pull between them. It would not be long before he threw all caution to the wind, sprang from his chair, and took her in his arms.

But an odd curiosity nagged the back of his thoughts; why had her father not interrupted them by now? With reluctance, he looked away from her and glanced at Mr. Hale to see why he had not put paid to these increasingly intimate proceedings. Margaret, though slightly disappointed, followed suit and emitted a small gasp of astonishment.

Somehow, as quickly as could be, exhaustion had finally claimed Mr. Hale, and his head drooped to his chest in slumber, his spectacles precariously teetering on the end of his nose. Margaret was up in an instant, gently removing the spectacles before they clattered to the floor, moving the book from his lap to a table, then tucking a nearby blanket around his legs. This done, she looked up at Mr. Thornton, who had also risen to his feet in case his assistance was required. Their quiet surprise dissolved quickly into breathy chuckles, and Margaret covered her mouth in an attempt to smother her laughter. It was perhaps a little ridiculous how it came about, but now that they were more truly alone, she did not want to risk awakening Mr. Hale.

As their humor subsided, the earlier breathtaking tension arose again, and Margaret felt her mouth go dry as Mr. Thornton's eyes focused and intensified on her. Much as she desired their seclusion, she had not realized the poignancy of her emotions and desires until actually alone with him, and she was unexpectedly spell-bound by his powerful bearing. Still determined to meet his eye as he stepped toward her, she had to remind herself to breathe.

Sooner than she imagined, though it had felt an eternity, he stood in front of her, dangerously near. His darkened eyes were a veritable storm, and she could not tell what feelings dominated his being. But his face was gentle and inviting, and she did not look away when she felt his hand take hers. Before she was aware of it, he was leading her to the settee, and she had to look down to be sure her knees still worked as she sat beside him.

He did not relinquish his hold on her hand, and she marveled at the tender way he caressed it, wondering how such a strong hand was capable of such gentleness. But she did not speak aloud her wonderings, too afraid of breaking the enchantment he had woven about her.

But he could speak, though it was only one word, and he uttered it so softly she could have sworn he only breathed it. "Margaret." Her fascination with his hands must be left to another time, for how could she resist such an entreaty? She looked up.

"Margaret," he echoed, his gaze hungry as he explored every inch of her face, committing every line, every faint freckle to memory. At last he could speak her name, and it seemed a magical key to the barriers that had once separated them.

The tingling pressure was so great she was sure that in a moment she would be gladly crushed under it, but at the very moment they began to lean toward each other, she jumped back.

She had no idea what she was doing! She may have dreamed of his embrace and imagined such a scene, but suddenly her self-conscious fear overtook her, and she turned away sharply. She was careful to keep his hand entwined with hers, but still she could not speak. To admit she was afraid would be ludicrous!

Once more he spoke her name, but now with a curious questioning. "Margaret?" She dared a look at him, but it was almost agonizing to see the change in him, a glimmer of pain at the edges of his eyes. "What is it?"

She did not want to cause him hurt or make him feel rejected, but she did not know how to express herself just now. The only thing she could think of was to stand, whisper a hasty "Excuse me," and rush out of the room.

As she grabbed the letter in her room, she took several deep breaths. In some ways, she was so shy and ignorant, and she had never cursed her inexperience more than she did at this moment. If only her fear had not intruded at such an inopportune time! Could she explain herself?

When she returned to the drawing room, he was standing at the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantel, his face withdrawn and pensive. He looked over to her immediately at her reappearance, and she now saw a hint of somberness in his expression that she could only attribute to her retreat. He opened his mouth to speak, and she knew he meant to apologize, so she hastened to him and interrupted him before he had a chance to utter the words.

"Please forgive me," she whispered, taking one of his hands in hers and gripping it tightly. "I do not want you to blame yourself for anything that has happened tonight."

Curious amazement shone through his features as he looked down on her. "But . . ." he searched for a reply. "But you were clearly displeased with -"

"No, not at all," she interrupted again more vehemently. "Not displeased, not at all." She looked down for a moment, needing to find the words herself, then met his eyes once again. "I was only . . . unprepared. You must forgive me; I have never found myself in this position before, and I did not know what to do."

Understanding seemed to infuse his face and his hand returned the pressure she gave. "I see." A wry chuckle escaped him. "You seem to forget that this is a circumstance entirely new to me, as well. I hope you do not mistake my greater age for greater experience in such matters. Before I met you, I had never felt anything so strong for any woman, and it was never in my nature to trifle with anyone for whom I felt no great affection."

"I know," she replied. "And I do not want you to mistake _me_. I do desire your . . . attentions," she blushed hotly at the admission, made all the deeper by the rakish grin that passed over his face. "I am unused to the feeling, and am not sure of what to do in such situations."

A hint of that daring smile remained as he replied, "May I suggest that running out of the room is not the way to encourage a man?"

She ducked her head again in mortification, but his free hand reached under her chin, pulling her back up to meet his gaze. The roguish look was past, and his eyes penetrated hers with deep sincerity. "Nor would I have you be afraid of me."

She nodded mutely, and he dropped his hand. It was now that she recalled the letter in her other hand, and she held it up. "I know I have taken too long to write back to you, but I hope you will take it."

As he took it from her, she continued. "You must forgive me again, for neglecting your letter, for it was not neglect. I tried so many times to write and was never satisfied. I fear that even this might be insufficient. Please," she held out a hand as he moved to break open the seal, "please do not read it now. I would be too humiliated to see you read it in front of me. Please wait until you are returned home."

He inclined his head to agree to her request and tucked the letter into his pocket. He was intensely curious about its contents, but if given the choice between a mere letter and Margaret's company, there was no contest.

"Would you care to sit?" Margaret asked, gesturing once more to the settee.

He repressed a grimace at the invitation. It was too tempting, and the brief solitude she had given him had also reminded him of his original purpose for coming this evening. He had been too easily distracted at the joy of seeing her again that he had allowed himself to forget. To sit beside her now would be too great a test for his fortitude, and he must speak with her about the distasteful topic before he was distracted again.

"I should not," he muttered, and took her hand in his. "There is something I must speak with you about."

Her hand tensed in his, and he could see clearly the concern that filled her face. Something in his expression must have betrayed that this was no pleasant task. Before he spoke again, he led her to the settee, where he helped her to sit. Instead of placing himself beside her, he took the chair opposite her, a tense energy filling his frame.

This was an entirely different feeling to his warm focus on her only minutes ago, and she could not help a shiver running through her at the serious pointedness of his eyes. He glanced at her father's figure for a moment, making certain that the old gentleman was still asleep, then turned back to her.

"You mentioned that you and your father visited Higgins the other day," he began.

"Yes," she answered in bewilderment.

"He came to me just this afternoon to tell me of something that concerned him." He was silent a moment to gauge her reaction, but nothing in her expression gave anything away yet. "He told me he saw a man watching you."

Immediately her countenance changed and she gasped. "He saw . . .?" she choked out.

He nodded stiffly. "He also said that you had mentioned to Mary a feeling of being watched during one of your visits."

She felt herself floundering under his stare. "But I told Mary . . ."

"That it was of no consequence?" he finished for her. "That she did not need to worry?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"If it is of no consequence, Margaret, if there is no need to worry," he asked, his eyes boring into hers pleadingly, "why have you stopped visiting her?"

"I have not," she tried to protest. "I just told you that Father and I went to see them."

"You _and_ your father," he pointed out. "When did you last go alone?"

She had an answer, but she did not want to admit to him how long it had been. He leaned toward her urgently. "You are not a woman easily frightened, Margaret. I know. What could have kept you from doing as you wished?"

She looked at the floor, ashamed that he had discovered her weakness. With a rapid movement, he was beside her again, taking her hands in a fierce hold. "What is it, Margaret? Why did you stop?"

A blush rose up in her again, but inspired by shame and mortification. "I . . ."

"Were you afraid?"

A hot tear escaped and ran down her cheek, but he reached out to wipe it away before she could. "You can tell me, Margaret. Did I not just tell you that you need not be afraid of me? You can tell me."

"No, I cannot," she whispered, mortification flooding her.

"Why ever not?" he asked, startled.

"Because I do not . . . I do not want to be weak," she admitted.

"Margaret," he said firmly, lifting her chin up. "You are not weak. It is not weakness to admit to being afraid. What's more, you are courageous. I have never met a braver woman. Who risked all her family's honor to protect her brother? Who ran out in front of an angry mob to protect a man she cared little about?"

She shook her head and tried to duck away, but he held her chin without yielding. "If you are afraid, it is not without reason. You have not imagined it, and it is nothing to ignore. And you need not bear it alone. You _will not_ bear it alone," he amended ferociously.

Margaret's vision blurred as the tears came faster, but Mr. Thornton's hands were quick to clear them away. "Tell me, please," he whispered.

"You already know," she whispered back.

"Tell me, anyway," was the stubborn reply.

She took a shuddering breath. "I think . . ." she began. "I think someone has been following me."

There. It was done. "I know," he said, wiping off the remaining tears on her cheeks with his thumbs. "And I think you will be interested to hear of what Higgins and I discovered this afternoon."

He proceeded to tell her of Nicholas's report, his conclusion, and the confirmation of his suppositions by Betsy. The horror she felt was in the extreme, not to mention her anger now that she knew the identity of the man and his motives for following her.

Seeing her indignation, he was relieved to see her usual fire returning. He held her hands again as she expressed in no common language her enraged shock that such a fiend would dare torment her. Such strong expression gave him great pleasure, and he had to remind himself to hold back his smile, so she would not think he was laughing at her. This was no laughing matter, after all.

"What does he think, that I would betray my brother to him?" she repeated once her tirade wound to a close.

"If he does, he is not only a scoundrel, he is a simpleton," he agreed.

"But now I know who he is and what he wants. I do not need to be afraid of him any more," she declared with powerful finality.

"No. You need not be afraid of him." Now he allowed himself an affectionate smile and reached a hand up to her face. The stormy look in her eye did not entirely dissipate at this gesture, but it did soften at his touch. "I will take care of you."

"I am capable of taking care of myself, you know," she retorted in a muted protest.

"But it is my privilege to do so," he argued back. "I will always wish to take care of you, just as I hope you would wish to do for me." She nodded lightly as his gaze penetrated hers. "I will always care for you, Margaret."

* * *

When he returned home, he felt an odd mix of jubilation and determination. He wished that his determination was all focused on the goal of claiming Margaret for his own at last, but he knew some of it was directed toward putting a stop to Leonards. He would not allow for Margaret to be terrorized still. But his jubilation was, he knew well, all due to her. She had shied away at a critical moment, but could he blame her for that? Never had he imagined that she would have allowed him to be so close to her, and he could not wait for another opportunity.

He pulled out the letter she had given him, turning it over in his hands carefully. Then, no longer able to be patient, he tore it open. At first he was dismayed to see so little written, but he was quickly reconciled to its brevity.

 _Beloved John,_

 _We have waited this long. But I am impatient, too. Do not make me wait a moment longer._

 _Your Margaret_


End file.
